Life Goes On
by Sheo Darren
Summary: " You killed my family. You killed everyone I cared for. I hate you! I hate you! I will never forgive you! That's why… that's why… I'll kill you! " Next on Life Goes On. Chapter Twenty Three. Rolito.
1. Missione

"You did great, Henrietta."

And that was all she needed to hear.

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
**Disclaimer: _Gunslinger Girl_ and _Noir_ are not mine.

**  
**Chronology: This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_ and several years after _Noir_. It is inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction.

**  
**Dedication: To Nachtsider. Thanks for everything. And when I say 'everything', I mean _everything_.

**  
First**

**_Missione_**

**  
**It began in Palermo. A prominent government prosecutor, his wife and his police bodyguard had been gunned down by unidentified men just after finishing Sunday morning mass. As the victim had been known for his stellar work against the Sicilian Mafia, it was not hard to compile a list of suspects. The hit was finally tracked to a rising young don who fancied himself in the olden days of untouchable glory.

Section Two would remedy that fatal illusion.

Their orders were simple. Set an example. Kill the offending don, his family and his followers. The mission would be officially covered as an internecine war within the Mafia, the don being unpopular amongst his peers. Unofficially, it would serve the purpose of a warning to the criminal organization. Italy would no longer tolerate such acts in silence. It would fight back– and it now had a weapon worthy of the mission at hand.

**  
**Jean was in overall command. His battle plan followed the classic "hammer and anvil" strategy with the twist of factoring in the third dimension. The target resided in a three-story ancestral manor not far into the countryside. That was perfect; no civilians to get in the way. The support groups would handle the surrounding area. The Fratello had the mansion itself as their exclusive sandbox.

Opposition was estimated to be upwards of forty armed men. Mostly old family hands, they were inferior in combat skills and equipment compared to professional soldiers. The cyborg operatives definitely outclassed them. Noncombatants include a small army of maids and household helpers, the don's wife and three children, and the family dog. Not much to worry about those. With only a few exceptions assigned the dubious honor of playing unknowing witnesses, all of them were to be terminated without prejudice.

Their orders were simple. Rico and Jean would first eliminate all the perimeter guards at long range. Once the way had been cleared, Henrietta and Giuseppe would storm the mansion's front. Simultaneously, Liesel and Altheus would attack the left wing while Triela and Hirsher took the right wing. After clearing out the surroundings and ground floor of opposition, the three teams were to link up and proceed up the second floor to repeat.

Handling the 'third dimension' was Claes. Preceding her teammates and working independently of any supervisor, the junior operative was tasked to slip past the guards, climb the manor and then clear the upper floor of ambushes. She would also probably be the one to get to the don first. A demanding task, but Claes assured in her calm manner that she was up to it.

It was an impressive show of force from an organization just four years old. Five Fratello teams, more than half the total number of cyborgs operational in the whole of Italy (what with the loss of the Elsa-Lauro team just a year ago), had been tapped for the mission. The display was there for a reason. They had an audience, and they were out to impress.

Present were a trio of observers. One was a stunning blonde Corsican who oozed both professionalism and candor. Mireille Bouquet had been selected as an impartial outside analyst by Jean himself on the basis of her impressive credentials as a freelance investigator. She had made quite an impact in the short time since she arrived, reorganizing weapons doctrine and combat tactics as well as speeding up paperwork. Given time to prove her self worthy of the organization's trust, a break in the eternal battle for proper funding, and the availability of an appropriate child, Mireille might very well become the newest Fratello handler.

The other two were from Childville. The Israelis had secretly arrived a week ago for cross training in urban warfare doctrine and cyborg operations. Today's representatives were easygoing Kathryn and her partner-ward Meir. Though both were armed, Kathryn carrying a Barak SP-21 and Meir a cruel-looking Stoner SR25K-SD that was totally at odds with his handsome features and pleasant personality, they would not participate in the operation. It was not the fault of the latter, though, that his presence had a slightly detrimental effect on one of his Italian counterparts.

Rico was slightly nervous. And distracted. She would sneak glances off Meir whenever she thought he wasn't looking. When he caught her at it, both of them blushed, though the boy didn't know why. Once an annoyed but puzzled Jean quietly warned her to focus on the mission or be sidelined in favor of Meir, Rico put on her usual 'mission face' and set everything else aside. That is, save for one brief thought.

"Got to impress him…"

Henrietta shared her friend's pre-combat jitters. Her mind was on familiar territory. She was behind her self-imposed quota again, with only five bodies this month. This mission offered her a chance to redeem herself. A little bit of mental mathematics showed that even if she managed to kill only a fifth of all the enemies present, she would still account for a minimum of four and a maximum of six. That would give her a monthly total ranging from nine at the lowest to eleven at the highest, evening things up at the very least. Better yet, with a little effort she could actually surpass her current high-water mark of ten. Surely Giuseppe would be very proud of her then!

Giuseppe. Her handler was even more distant than Rico. He still showered her with his usual soft-spoken prompts to be careful. But along with those little heartwarming reminders came a low, cold order that was so unlike him.

"Henrietta. I want you to kill all of them."

That order would elicit different reactions based on who was giving it and who was receiving it. Rico would not need to be told twice by Jean, or at all. It was probably the same with Claes, though Raballo was now nothing more than a nameless memory. Literal-minded Angelica would happily take to such a command– and would get into trouble out of her sheer desperation to prove herself in Marco's eyes. On the other hand, Triela would have hotly debated the issue, though not for morality's sake but for the sheer heck of needling Hirscher.

Being herself, Henrietta happily bobbed her head in the affirmative. Her conviction to do well on this mission was now doubled. She had hers. Now she had Giuseppe's as well.

**  
**The assault exceeded the highest expectations. Security was light and relaxed. The don was obviously not expecting any trouble. Whether it was out of haughtiness or a feeling of security would never be known. No one bothered to ask.

Claes was first in. Though laden with climbing gear and her MP-5K, she made a thought sound noisy. She took full advantage of the sentries' brief shift change and made it to her last checkpoint in record time without engaging or encountering a single soul. Once in position, she visually signaled her teammates via a flashing mirror to "rock the house", as Kathryn put it aptly, before proceeding on her own.

Impressing even Jean, though he would be the last to admit it, Rico's Dragunov methodically eliminated the perimeter guards one shot at a time. Not a man was able to sound the alarm. Once the grounds had been 'sanitized', Henrietta, Liesel and Triela advanced upon their assigned areas, automatic weapons primed and ready. Their respective handlers followed closely to support their wards if need be. In all cases, they didn't have to. In one girl's case, her handler could only slow her down.

Henrietta was particularly aggressive. She was like a Fury out of legend, Tisiphone given human form and modern automatic weaponry, an avenging angel of justice. She ranged far ahead of Giuseppe and the others, a one-girl army that tore through what flimsy opposition was offered her without slowing one bit. She was unstoppable.

It was not to say that she was careless or got into trouble. No, not at all like the first time she went berserk. No. She remained in complete control of herself and never got hit, not once. She was too careful to get injured. The thunder of a flash bang grenade always preceded her coming. Then what should have been a battle became a massacre.

Once, a pair of guards tried hitting her from behind while she was engaged with a third opponent. Instead of blocking with an arm as she and her sisters-in-arms were wont to do, Henrietta grabbed the nearest corpse and swung it around to cover her back while firing her FN P90 one handed. Her attackers faltered a moment at the sight of the gory shield that was once their coworker– enough time for Henrietta to gun down her first target and then turn on them. Then she was on the move again.

**  
**The don had been caught off guard by the sudden assault. Nevertheless, his men had offered what valiant resistance they could so that their employer could escape. Their lives bought their boss the time he needed. Together with his family and his three most trusted bodyguards, the don had almost made it to the secret underground escape tunnel built for precisely this kind of situation.

Then Henrietta happened on them.

She ran out of bullets in killing the first two guards. Without missing a beat she launched her expended P90 at the head of the third. The sound of a skull cracking open was sickening. Before the body had hit the ground, her Sig was out and aimed at the don's perspiring forehead.

The man began pleading for his life and for his family. His wife and children were frightened, crying, afraid of the girl who was Death materialized.

But all Henrietta could hear was Giuseppe's order.

**  
**_"Henrietta. I want you to kill all of them."_

**  
**Brown eyes hardened.

**  
**When Claes arrived, it was to find eight bodies and one cyborg operative.

"Henrietta?"

She smiled at her friend. "Mission accomplished, Claes."

"No one escaped?"

"No. Not a one."

"All right, then. Let's get back to the others."

**  
**Henrietta's 'antics' brought her a slight reprimand from Jean for 'endangering' the entire operation. Her performance elicited glowing praise and astonished applause from everyone else. She had bagged a total of fourteen guards. In addition, she had been the one to take down the primary targets: the don and his family, who should have been Claes' had it not been for stronger opposition than she expected. The closest was Rico at ten, all perimeter sentries and 'easy' kills compared to hers. It was Henrietta's best performance yet, setting a record in both personal and organizational accounts that would stand for quite a while.

Congratulations and commentaries were in order. Triela was especially ebullient, cheerfully chiding Henrietta for depriving her of her fair share in the kills. (The teasing earned her a pointy look from Hirscher, which the blonde returned with a naughty grin.) Rico, Meir, Kathryn and Claes were close behind. And while Liesel made a point out ofthe unprofessionally recklessway Henrietta handled things, even she seemed mildly impressed with the results.

Aside, Mireille finished her silent notary and sighed to herself in acknowledgement of some obscure truth she had just witnessed again.

"Kirika…"

But all the praise Henrietta received was nothing to Giuseppe's approval. Only his opinion mattered. He made her world run. He was everything to her. She was nothing without him.

At first he didn't say or show anything save a slight smile. Only when he and Henrietta were in his red Ferrari did he speak his mind.

"Henrietta."

"Yes?"

"You were reckless out there. Jean was right. You nearly endangered the mission."

He said it without any emotion. She took it like it was a stab to the heart, but gamely went on.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to do my best and do what you wanted me to."

He was silent for a long while. Biting her lips lightly and clutching the hem of her skirt, she waited almost in vain for the sun of his appreciation to arise. Then, smiling, Giuseppe reached out and ruffled her hair with one hand. His eyes were actually twinkling.

"You did great, Henrietta."

And that was all she needed to hear.

**  
Tsuzuku**

**  
**People try to protect the ones they love. But you cannot protect them from everything. Next on _Life Goes On_: **Morte.**


	2. Morte

Henrietta cradled Giuseppe in her arms. She wept.

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
**Disclaimer: _Gunslinger Girl_ and _Noir_ are not mine.

**  
**Chronology: This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_ and several years after _Noir_. It is inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction (the story _Battlezone_ and the characters Meir, Liesel, Kathryn and Altheus).

**  
To _Soldat #75664_:** Well, it's going to be far more of a _Gunslinger Girl_ story than it is a _Noir_ one. But give me a couple of chapters. Since your enthusiasm has inspired me such, Mireille is going to get a bigger role earlier. Shall we see what it is?

**  
To the rest of my reviewers, especially _Nachtsider_:** Glad you liked it. Thank you very much!

**  
Second**

_**Morte**_

**  
**They were touring the scenic Sicilian countryside. It was her reward for a stellar performance, something she and Giuseppe had talked about the night before. Henrietta had never really been to the rural hinterlands of Italy. At least, she didn't remember anything remotely close to them. She didn't mind. This was Giuseppe's home province, the place where he grew up and become the man she so admired and loved. Seeing it was to gaze into a facet of his person, to know yet another part of the being that mesmerized her and gave her purpose and life.

It was fun driving around in Giuseppe's convertible. The day being sunny and windy, the candy red Ferrari's top was down. Henrietta could feel the wind upon her face. She grinned in delight. So did Giuseppe.

A sign on the side of the road announced the all-too-obvious blind corner. Giuseppe obediently slowed down.

The truck that came barreling out of the blind corner didn't. It filled their windshield and kept expanding, a metal leviathan coming straight for them.

It happened so fast. Without even thinking, Giuseppe threw his Ferrari into a hard right turn, interposing his side of the car– and himself– between the truck and his precious ward.

Henrietta's head smacked hard against her seat. There was a sudden hissing sound that drowned out her small cry of surprise. Then everything was white.

**  
**It was the safety airbags. They pinned Henrietta to her seat even more securely than her seatbelt. She struggled to unfasten her seatbelt but failed. When she tried to squirm free of the offending oversized balloon, she found her Sig instead.

Inspiration hit. A couple of shots deflated the airbag pressed up against her body. A third did the same trick for Giuseppe.

Henrietta went cold to see her handler all covered in blood.

She practically wrecked her side of the car. In contrast, she was as gentle as possible with carrying Giuseppe out of the metal deathtrap. She vaguely remembered a lecture emphasizing extreme care in moving the severely injured. That it was Giuseppe who had taught her that ensured it was a lesson well learned– and now, a lesson called upon for all it was worth.

She laid him upon a soft patch of grassy ground. Her jacket served as a pillow for his head while she cleaned his face of blood with her handkerchief. She didn't know what else to do. She didn't have an inkling of first aid training. She was an assassin. She was in the business of taking lives, not saving them. All she had to cling on was brief snippets of common sense and his lecture.

That and hope.

An electronic beep broke her silent dirge. Giuseppe's cellular phone. Henrietta had only the vaguest inkling on using it, but she began pushing buttons. A little bit of fiddling plus luck produced Hirscher's number. A few seconds later, she was breathlessly relaying her crisis to the astonished senior _Fratello_.

"Hang on there, Henrietta," Hirscher told her. "We're coming. We're coming as fast as we can."

She didn't hear. They weren't part of her world. The bloody man who lay still before her was. More so, he was her world.

Henrietta cradled Giuseppe in her arms. She wept.

**  
**The ambulance's siren came half an hour later. Hirscher's car was close behind. The German had been the closest Section Two agent in the area. He had beaten a red light and violated the speed limit thrice to get here as quickly as he could.

For her, they had taken the whole of eternity. For her, they could have been as remote as the moon– or nonexistent.

White-suited paramedics rushed forward most professionally. Hirscher, Triela and Claes –the last riding with Hirscher due her lack of a partner and her own request– beat them to Henrietta.

The girl was like a statue. Concerned queries on Triela's part were answered with silence. She didn't look at any of them or even sniffle. All she did was hold Giuseppe and stare at his blood-streaked face. That worried Triela. Henrietta had told her and Claes about the truth behind Elsa's death during one of their afternoon tea sessions. Though Triela had laughed off the possibility of that happening to herself, making an especial effort to point out her ongoing 'war' with Hirscher, she wasn't a fool. She understood the potential for disaster when a cyborg underwent extreme emotional stress, knew that amongst their group Henrietta was the most vulnerable to such stress.

It was only when the medics laid their hands on Giuseppe that Henrietta finally reacted. Distant-seeming brown orbs began to lazily follow their movements as though measuring a threat. Hirscher's discreet signal wasn't needed. Triela and Claes began watching Henrietta for any sign of dangerous behavior.

Nothing happened at first. The distraught girl pathetically held onto her handler even as he was strapped onto a stretcher and carried to the ambulance. Just like any normal little girl would in a situation like this.

The peace was short-lived. When a medic gently but firmly pushed her away in order to load Giuseppe into the ambulance, it was like the declaration of war she had pretended listlessness for. Henrietta went berserk. She took down two medics before Triela and Claes managed to restrain her. Thankfully the men she attacked had only been badly bruised, if scared out of their wits.

Hirscher knew that the mechanical body was capable of amazing feats, but here it was like Henrietta had suddenly gotten twice as strong. She fought madly to break free, punching and kicking and biting, and very nearly threw Triela off her back. Making it even more difficult was her distraught weeping and pleas to accompany Giuseppe. Softie that she was, Triela hated being harsh on people she cared for. But she kept Henrietta under wraps for the latter girl's sake. Claes silently assisted all the way, ignoring even the wayward fist that clipped her brow and knocked her precious glasses off her nose.

Finally, Henrietta stopped struggling and simply wept. Triela released her and motioned for Claes to do the same. The dark-haired girl complied slowly. But all their friend did was to cry. While Claes picked up her glasses and put them back on, Triela hugged Henrietta tight, allowing herself to cry as well, sharing in her friend's misery.

"It'll be all right. It'll be all right."

It took a while, but Hirscher persuaded the lead paramedic into allowing Henrietta to ride the ambulance with Giuseppe. As insurance, Claes rode along.

Though her reluctant fellow passengers eyed her every now and then in suspicion, she paid them no heed. She had eyes only for Giuseppe. She never released his limp but warm hand for the entire trip.

**  
**Jean and Rico found their downcast colleagues seated outside the emergency room.

Her eyes were fixed upon the twin swinging doors. She hadn't moved one bit, not even to follow the doctors wheeling Giuseppe into the operating room. That was actually a relief. Hirscher had feared they were in for another impromptu wrestling session. But Henrietta had not stirred once. It was as if all the fight in her had been expended earlier.

"Hirscher. Take the cyborgs back to the safe house. I will stay here and watch Giuseppe."

"Understood."

Amplified hearing allowed Henrietta to pick up what Jean murmured under his breath.

"Family should be the one to handle this…"

**  
**She wanted to protest. She wanted to stay. Giuseppe was her _Fratello_. He was her _brother_, her _word_, her _everything_. He was all that mattered to her.

Didn't that make her family, too?

He was the only family she had. And she was losing him now.

But all the resistance she could muster was a bowed head and a sigh from her very soul. Even Triela's rueful attempt at cheering her up fell flat on its figurative face.

Reluctantly, Henrietta turned her back on the man who was her world and walked away.

**  
**Dr. Bianchi had pronounced her in perfect health and condition, with not even a scratch to account for. But of course she was uninjured. She was beyond little things like injury and pain and maybe even death. It was Giuseppe who was human.

It was Giuseppe who was dying.

Triela accompanied her back to her room. They passed Priscilla and Marco, ignored the adults' well-meant expressions of concern. But Priscilla would not be stilled.

"Marco? Do you remember when you first taught Angie how to fire a gun?"

Henrietta didn't slow, even as Marco nodded and Priscilla continued.

"Didn't I tell Angie that I wanted to protect her, but it looked like she would be the one protecting me?"

Priscilla smiled sadly at the forlorn figure walking down the hallway, at the girl cast adrift upon an invisible ocean of despair.

"Trust Giuseppe to be better than me…"

**  
**She dreamed of him. They were enjoying the marvelous view of the ocean from the balcony of his family home in Sicily. The cry of seagulls drifted down to where they stood even as the sea breezes rose to caress them in appreciation.

"Henrietta?"

"Yes, Giuseppe?"

"I'll be leaving for somewhere distant soon. I'll be gone a long time."

"When do we leave?" So she could make preparations.

"No, Henrietta," he softly told her. "I have to go alone. You can't go to where I'm going."

Her face fell. "But why? Where are you going? Why can't I go?"

"I can't tell you right now. You would probably understand, but still–"

"But I want to be with you! I don't want to be left behind," she breathlessly pleaded. "I don't want to be left all alone."

"You'll never be alone. You have all the others with you. Triela. Claes. Rico. Jean will take care of you while I'm gone. I know my brother will."

She was quiet for a while. Then: "You will come back, won't you?"

"Yes," he assured her. "One day, I'll come back for you."

And she held on to that assurance. She knew he always told the truth with her.

"But," he solemnly said. "You have to wait for me. It will be a long time before I come back. I might not even make it where I need to go."

"No." At that, she explained. "I know you'll make it to wherever you want to go, Giuseppe. And I know you'll come back for me." Her eyes shone with profound trust and admiration. "Because you know everything and can do anything."

He smiled at her. "And now I know I do." Pausing, he then added: "You'll be a good girl for me, will you? You'll be a normal girl, even when I'm not there to remind you, right?"

She nodded quickly, automatically. But his next request was unexpected.

"You'll never forget me, will you?"

That gave her pause. "Giuseppe…"

"I know you won't forget me, Henrietta. Still–"

She grasped his warm hand in her own small ones and held him tightly.

"I won't," she finally said. "I promise."

"Me, too."

She was crying, but she smiled nevertheless.

"_Ciao_ for now. Until we meet again. Henrietta."

"_Ciao._ Giuseppe."

**  
**The chapel was empty and dark when Jean entered. Rico remained outside, ostensibly as a guard. The truth was that he didn't want anyone to be around him right now. He needed time to himself. Time so that he could consider his thoughts and emotions. Time to compose himself so as to go on living as he was.

Time to pray to a God he secretly, dearly, desperately hoped was real.

For, despite his affected appearance of invulnerability, Jean was still human.

He selected a pew at random. Kneeling, his head bowed, he crossed himself and began to pray.

**  
**A sprightly "Yes?" answered them from behind the door.

Henrietta was a bustling little bee. She wore the new sundress Giuseppe had bought for her just a week ago and toted a small basket of fresh fruits.

"Oh! Triela! Mr. Hirscher! Good morning! Are you going to take me to visit Giuseppe now? I'm really worried about him, and I'd really feel better if I could see he's all right. I really miss him, you know…"

She stopped in mid-explanation. Hirscher was visibly uncomfortable. Triela looked even more pained.

And Henrietta felt cold.

"Is there something wrong?" she slowly asked.

"Henrietta," Triela murmured. "There's something you need to know."

**  
**The basket clattered to the floor, its contents spilling upon the carpet. So did Henrietta.

**  
Tsuzuku**

**  
**She is daddy's girl. But what is she to do when daddy is gone? Next on _Life Goes On_: **Henrietta.**


	3. Promessa

"_Ciao_, Giuseppe. Until we meet again. Goodbye."

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
**Disclaimer: _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_ and _Hamlet_ are not mine.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_ and several years after _Noir_. It is inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction (the story _Battlezone_ and the characters Meir, Liesel, Kathryn and Altheus) and Deathra's poem_ Daddy's Girl_.

Notice that I changed the name of the chapter. I thought _Promessa_ (Italian for 'promise') was more apt. And it is.

**  
To all my reviewers:** my appreciations for all the reviews, assistance and inspirations!

**  
Third**

_**Promessa**_

**  
**Giuseppe's funeral was held one warm morning in Naples just a week later. He would be buried next his parents. Both were long dead, victims of a terrorist attack that had sent their dissimilar sons on their life path. What few direct blood relations that remained were of no consequence. But people that mattered were present and accounted for.

The gathered crowd was almost completely composed of Giuseppe's coworkers in the Social Welfare Service. All the _Fratello_ pairs and support teams who participated in the recent mission were there. Alongside them were their Israeli comrades-in-arms, the Childville delegation. Later a morbid joke would circulate in Section One about a single grenade or mortar round effectively depopulating the 'doll house'– and with some Jews on the side as a bonus.

But who amongst these men and women in attendance cared about such pettiness? Section One was not family. _They_ were. For all intents and purposes, Section Two was Giuseppe's family.

They and the little girl in black, the girl whose gaze was for all intents and purposes nailed upon the dark brown coffin and the man held within.

There were speeches. All had only glowing remarks for their departed comrade. Opinions that would have been otherwise unshakeable were now revised in regards to the deceased's own. Like Marco, who surprised everyone in admitting Giuseppe had been right about Angelica, that he shouldn't be so cold to her even though all seemed lost with her. Death did that to people. It reminded everyone that nothing lasted forever, that people came and went like the wind, and that men were all too mortal despite their beliefs otherwise.

And that made life all the more precious.

Jean was the last. His was brief and simple. He did not indulge in frivolous depictions of previous heroisms or dwell upon optimistic thoughts of paradise in the afterlife. Instead, he pointed out that his brother was just a man like all of them and that all of them would die one day. But in that same way, mortality was the greatest proof of human existence. "And all of us will still go on living– even without Giuseppe."

Aside, Rico and Meir found and grasped each other's hands tightly.

Aside, Claes bowed her head in subconscious reverie.

"Life goes on," Jean affirmed. "So we must. So we must."

**  
**Henrietta endured it all.

She should not have even been there. The cybernetics experts had strongly suggested that the 'orphaned' girl be restrained, sedated and placed under heavy guard until they could assess her emotional and mental stability. It was probably the most logical course of action, considering the girl's current grief.

But Jean insisted. Jean, that man of adamantine resolve and Olympian distance, had insisted on her presence. He assured Chief Lorenzo that nothing adverse would happen. In fact, he pointed out, it would be _better_ to have Henrietta attend. The whole of Section Two knew how close she was to Giuseppe. They all believed that she deserved to be present at her handler's funeral. To deprive them of that would be devastating for morale. "They are human," he repeated. "They have human feelings."

And having her fellow cyborgs –no lesser entities would suffice for the task involved– guarding her, keeping her away from the man she cared for, would most assuredly be upsetting to all involved. The cyborgs would not just feel sorry for their distraught friend. They would also castigate themselves for being the ones inflicting added misery, would consider their handler's– and their own– mortality. One dispirited cyborg was bad enough. Two or more would be disastrous.

Partly because Jean was persuasive, mostly because he was pushy, the experts relented. To tell the truth, they were all too happy to dump the responsibility on someone else. _Better you than us,_ their glances had said.

But it was worth it.

After all, it was a promise he made to a dead man.

**  
**

The service ended. The eulogies were done. Now was the final act. Slowly the casket was lowered into its final resting place.

At a nod from Jean, Henrietta began walking towards the grave.

It was the privilege of a person especially close to the deceased. Like a lover. Jean did not have to insist on this. No one would argue the matter. All were in agreement. There was no one else more fitting for the role. There was no one else more important to the deceased.

There was no one else to be had.

Tightly clasped to her bosom was a bouquet filled with violets. She had picked it for its scent, which she had so liked. But she also chose it for its ancient symbolic value, something Giuseppe had mentioned so long ago in passing, yet another proof in her eyes that he knew everything.

Violets stood for faithfulness.

And she was faithful to him for all eternity.

Her first, small step forward into terror was followed by another, and another. She was utterly alone. She had no one to support her even indirectly. The sun beat down on her. Her composure somehow held despite the heat, despite her vulnerability and loneliness, despite the overwhelming intimacy of the crossing. It was the bravest thing she ever did.

Slowly, surely, she approached Giuseppe's grave.

Hirscher's Literature lessons came to life in her mind even as she approached the dead. Characters blinked in and out of existence, preaching and retorting, demanding and asking. They were familiar. Shakespeare. The Bard. _Hamlet_. What was that scene? It danced this way and that, just out of reach of her memory's fingertips. It was so fitting for today. But she could not remember.

And then it hit her. The scene stopped her in her tracks like a bullet through the heart. The enormity of its parallelism, its similarity to her situation, devastated her.

Ophelia's funeral. Laertes. Struck half-mad with grief at his sister's untimely passing, he lashed out in condemnation at the people to blame for her death and at those who dared deny the last rite that was her right.

_"Oh terrible woe fall ten times treble on that cursed head whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense deprived thee of. Hold off the earth a while 'til I have caught her once more in mine arms. Now pile your dust, upon the quick and dead, 'til of this flat a mountain you have made to overtop old Pelion or the sky-blue head of Olympus."_

But the man responsible for the disaster was just as wrought as he was. Hamlet. The Dane. The accursed. The mad.

The orphaned, first by his father, now by his love.

Just like her.

_"What is he, whose grief bears such an emphasis? Whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wandering stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I–"_

She wished she could do what they did. Bring her heart's content into the open. Have the flame of her passion go out in blazing glory instead of an ignoble fizzling into nothingness.

But she kept her peace. It was not her way. She was not like that. And there was no need for such dramatics. Everyone knew what she felt. Everyone commiserated with her. There was no need to scream. A whisper was more than enough.

Besides, she had her own promises to keep.

"_Henrietta. Promise me– no. Promise on Giuseppe's name and grave. Promise that whatever happens at the funeral, you will keep your peace."_

"_Yes, Jean. I promise."_

Dull thuds accompanied the shovels discharging their earthen cargo upon oaken wood. Dirt and soil quickly covered wood and flowers. In minutes, the deed was done.

From dust man came. Into dust he will return.

As the man she loved was hidden forever from her earthly sight, as the earth that was mother of all life reclaimed her Italian son, Henrietta finally allowed herself to cry.

_"Ciao, Giuseppe. Until we meet again. Goodbye."_

**Tsuzuku**

**  
**It made her happy. It made her fall in love with him in the first place. Next on _Life Goes On_: **Conditioning**


	4. Conditioning

"My name is Mireille. Mireille Bouquet."

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_ and _Noir_ are not mine.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_ and several years after _Noir_. It is inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction (the story _Battlezone_ and the characters Meir, Liesel, Kathryn and Altheus) and Deathra's poem_ Daddy's Girl_.

**  
To _Soldat #75664:_**Well, here is the official beginning of the _Noir_ involvement. I hope you enjoy it and the coming chapter!

**  
Fourth**

_**Conditioning**_

**  
**She knew.

Like a condemned criminal on death row who admitted all too freely to her own guilt, she knew what was coming. She was neither despondent nor hysterical. Instead, she was curiously aloof. She was resigned to the inevitable, seeing no other path open to her save walking the green mile, had no choice except to accept things as they were.

She was going to die. One way or another, she was going to die.

Everyone tried to make her feel better. Triela spent so much time chatting with her that she could have replaced Rico as a roommate. The displaced girl's counterattack was Meir. His charming number mad her smile as if everything was still all right. Lacking Triela's volubility and Meir's charisma, Angelica opted for cheerful slapstick, intentionally tripping on her words– and, unintentionally, on herself. And Claes actually shook off the grip of her latest romance novel, dragged herself out of her room and Henrietta out of hers, and worked together on the vegetable garden all afternoon long.

Strangest was Liesel. Since she had her own separate apartment outside of and far from the compound, the other girls saw little of her outside missions. And while she did not possess Elsa's surliness, she was almost as aloof as Claes when it came to what she vaguely defined as "trivial matters." So while an unofficial visit executed on her initiative wasn't _impossible_, it _was_ very unlikely.

But there she was that day, dressed in snappy civilian clothes and asking around for Henrietta. Triela's joke for the day was that if you asked Liesel what her reason was for visiting, the latter would answer perfunctorily, "Business _and_ pleasure." Just like at the airport.

She found Henrietta and Rico in the cafeteria. Liesel promptly informed them that "Lunch is on me." The adventure had already been approved by the highest levels. At the bottom of the authorization document were Altheus and Jean's signatures.

Everything had been planned in advance. Exquisite attention was paid to the smallest details. Amadeo played chauffeur. Priscilla stood as their chaperone. Ferro was their shadow.

Lunch came and went awkwardly. While Liesel had extensively engineered this endeavor over the past few days and was quite eloquent in her own way, she somehow could not form anything more than a sentence. Ditto for Priscilla, who normally excelled at this but faltered now for no reason she could fathom. All their skills and experience had suddenly disappeared, leaving them to grope for straws.

Strangely, it was Henrietta who carried the day. She suggested the restaurant and gave advice as to the menu. (It turned out that she and Giuseppe had dined there several times in the past. That was cause for a grimace.) She tried five dresses, picked one, and got a bonnet and sandals to go along with it. And she smoothed things for her befuddled companions.

By the end of the day, it was Priscilla who needed cheering up.

"Are you all right?" Henrietta asked.

"Oh, yes, yes, I'm fine, fine."

A line Liesel expected, but _not_ from their senior. She intervened. "You're holding up pretty well, Henrietta. You had me fooled there."

The girl didn't reply. Her silence spoke volumes.

"No? Then I'm right: you _are_ worried." Liesel's eyes softened. "Why the happy façade?"

Henrietta looked at her fellow cyborg and at Priscilla. She asked:

"What else _can_ I do?"

No one answered. Nothing was said. It was the sad truth. Nothing. Absolutely nothing could be done.

She was doomed.

"Don't worry," Henrietta suddenly volunteered. "There is something I can– _am_ doing. And that is keeping me alive."

Both her companions regarded her with curiosity and awe. Even as the sun set below the horizon behind them, her smile dawned, taking them both into its radiance.

"I am waiting. I am waiting for him."

**  
**_"You will come back, won't you?"_

"_Yes," he assured her. "One day, I'll come back for you."_

_And she held on to that assurance. She knew he always told the truth with her._

"_But," he solemnly said. "You have to wait for me. It will be a long time before I come back. I might not even make it where I need to go."_

"_No." At that, she explained. "I know you'll make it to wherever you want to go, Giuseppe. And I know you'll come back for me." Her eyes shone with profound trust and admiration. "Because you know everything and can do anything."_

_He smiled at her. "And now I know I do."_

**  
**"An accident?"

"Yes. Giuseppe's death was a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"An accident," Jean repeated a bit disbelievingly.

"I understand your skepticism, Jean, but it's the truth. We've questioned the 'suspect', checked his records. He's just another truck driver down on his luck and behind his mortgage payments."

He knew that. It was just his standard operating procedure. Counter-terrorism was just a few steps down from outright espionage. Nothing was as simple as it seemed on the outside. There was always a hidden agenda, an ace in the hole. There was always something up with someone that everyone else didn't know, but should.

Like now. With him.

"With your permission," the bespectacled man in the lab coat said, "There is something we would like to try– if you can give us Henrietta for that purpose."

This was it, then. The issue he had prepared to fight. Jean deliberately allowed a half-interested stare. He could not allow his ulterior motives to show so easily. "What is it, Doctor Massi?"

Doctor Massi led Section Two's cybernetics department. Among other things, his group was responsible for developing and upgrading the mechanical body it. He reminded Jean of a feral dog nosing around the garbage bin.

"It is about a new conditioning drug we have just developed. This new drug is cutting edge, a full generation more effective than the current one in use. It achieves the same pain-killing effect and also improves the mechanical body's performance by a striking margin. But more importantly," Massi stressed, "it does far less damage to the cyborg's 'real' body. In effect, it has the capacity to at least double a cyborg's useful life span."

He allowed a moment of silence to allow his audience to digest his revelations before reluctantly adding: "At least, that is in theory and according to our best simulations so far."

"In theory, Doctor?" Jean tried to moderate his scorn. He mostly succeeded. "And according to your best simulations?"

"Yes, well, you see, we haven't tested it yet because we don't have a test subject."

"And you want Henrietta?"

"Yes. She is the most convenient– no," Massi corrected himself, "the _best_ subject available."

"Why her?" Chief Lorenzo asked. "Why not someone else?"

"We were originally planning to use Angelica, but her handler Marco Toni raised strenuous objections. So did our esteemed colleague Dr. Bianchi. Our second choice, Claes, has just recently verified her capacity to operate independently of a handler– and most effectively, too. Using her would not only negate one of our objectives, but will also waste the special conditioning treatment already in effect with her _and_ remove a perfectly useful agent from the field. And we do not have the budget available to create a new cyborg, not for a while. You know this, Jean."

He did. But that didn't mean he liked it.

"Henrietta does not have any of these problems. She has no handler." Massi failed to notice the brief tic on Jean's forehead at that. "She cannot be given a new one– at least, not with current methods. She is useless without one. The only cost we will incur is for the experiment itself, which is well within the budget."

"You mentioned objectives," Chief Lorenzo noted. "Just what do you want to accomplish with Henrietta?"

"Two things, Sir. First and foremost, we want to validate the new method's capabilities, especially concerning its effect on cyborg lifespan."

"And the second?"

"We want to see if we could completely undo a cyborg's bond with her handler."

Jean's eyes narrowed.

"As you know," Massi elaborated unnecessarily, "an important effect of conditioning is establishing a powerful bond between the cyborg and its handler. This is a failsafe to ensure the cyborg's loyalty. No sense in loosing a Frankenstein's monster on ourselves now, is there?

"However, this bond is also conditioning's greatest limitation. Not only does it make the cyborg overprotective of its handler, it also renders it emotionally and psychologically chained to him. It will do everything its handler orders it to do. In some cases, the relationship between cyborg and handler becomes so strong that the cyborg's thinking not only turns fanatical, but irrational. We have ample evidence of this from our experience with the Elsa Incident, do we not?"

The statement brought out the desired result. Everyone present except Jean blanched at that unpleasant memory.

It was the most extreme example of behavior brought upon by conditioning. Elsa de Sica had fallen deeply in love with her handler Lauro. When her affection had not returned in any way, she killed Lauro. Then she committed suicide.

Her actions had shaken Section Two to its core. Although the organization had mostly recovered, the event still left a bad taste in the mouths of everyone in the know. It had become one of the organization's greatest secrets. Even now, the true circumstances behind Elsa and Lauro's deaths were known only to a select few. Three were present. They did not know that others possessed the same secrets. One such 'outsider' to their circle was dead and just buried. Still another was the new Chief of Section One. (Coincidentally, his partner– and now wife– was also in the know.)

And unknown to the men gathered in that room, the fate of a final, secret confidante was currently at stake.

"The loss of a cyborg is always possible–even remotely acceptable. But the loss of a handler is something we've anticipated but never really given thought to. Certainly not in the manner and magnitude with what happened to Giuseppe. Raballo's death–" again that glimmer in Jean's eyes at what seemed such an unimportant detail "– was bad enough. We had to completely erase Claes' memories and sideline her for more than a year.

"Henrietta's case is far worse. Claes partnered with Raballo for only a few months. In comparison, Henrietta and Giuseppe worked together for years. Additionally, they were very emotionally close. Finally, Henrietta was a first-hand witness to the events leading to her handler's death.

"Simply put, there is too much history between them. The amount of normal conditioning we will need to erase all those memories would not just severely damage her. It might even kill her.

"Her only hope is our new treatment. It's a 50-50 thing, but it's her best– her _only_ way to remain useful to us," Massi finished, "and it is one I hope you will take."

"I'll take this matter under serious consideration," Chief Lorenzo assured at last after a significant pause. "I'll call another meeting to confirm it."

The doctor politely withdrew from the office. Only Jean was left with the Chief. He knew what was coming.

"Jean. I know how you and Giuseppe never really seemed to see eye-to-eye, but were actually very close. I know you want to stand in his place and protect this girl for him. But there is no helping this situation. You keep on saying that Section One is a counter-terrorist force and not a non-profit organization; that the mechanical bodies are not normal girls or even human, but weapons. Well, one of those weapons is useless right now. We have to fix it, fix whatever problem it has and get it working again. We can't allow ourselves to carry emotional baggage. Neither can Henrietta."

"I understand. I will abide by your decision. It would have been the same decision I would make in your situation."

"I know you know what this costs me. And I'm sorry for your brother, too. He was a good man."

"I know."

**  
**Rico and Meir were surprised to find Jean standing alone in the corridor. The former was about to run over to her handler, but the latter held her back. And despite her conditioning, the blonde girl somehow could not bring herself to resist her Israeli friend outside of a surprised query.

"Meir?"

"Don't. Let him be, Rico. He needs to be alone."

Only slightly reluctantly, she did what he asked of her. Together, they watched.

**  
**Fists balled and mouth an inviolable line, Jean stood alone.

In his mind, he could see a figure regarding him. The man wasn't sad, not at all.

Still, Jean could not face the ghost of his brother.

"I wasn't able to protect her. I tried, but it wasn't enough. I wasn't strong enough for her– for _you_.

"You were always the stronger of us, Giuseppe," Jean admitted. "Always was."

**  
**The operating table was cold and hard, nothing like her bed. But its starkness was utility. No frills, no distraction.

Straps held her in place. It was a last-minute precaution. One of the doctors had voiced out his concern that Henrietta might go berserk and attempt to escape. Handily forgotten was the fact that the girl had earlier been loaded with enough conditioning to last her for days. At least they weren't tight. Bianchi made sure of that.

Massi would perform the operation. He was all professionalism, as if simply dissecting a frog instead of practically snuffing out a sentient being's existence. Henrietta held nothing against him. He was only doing his job. It was the same with her, after all, even though it felt so far away now.

Bianchi was there as adjutant. The familiar face was craggy with concern. He could not meet her eyes half the time. She tried a reassuring smile, but her gesture only made him more uncomfortable. She understood and closed her eyes instead– but not before looking to her right, at the one-way mirror hiding their audience.

**  
**Two blondes stared from behind the glass. One was Jean. The other was _not_ Rico. The cyborg was holed up with Meir in the dorm room she shared with Henrietta. They were praying.

"What will you name her?" Jean asked his companion.

She told him.

**  
**"Being the procedure," Massi coolly announced.

The loss of feeling barely registered. It wouldn't matter. In just a few minutes more, she would be gone. As if she had been there in the first place.

Crowding upon the edge of her consciousness were all these questions. Wasn't she alive? Didn't she exist still? Why was she not fighting? Didn't she want to live? Didn't she make a promise to someone that she would live for him?

She would have shaken her head at them– at herself. Why just now? It was too late to change anything. The die was cast. She had crossed her Rubicon. There was no turning back.

There was only sweetly invincible oblivion.

Only death.

Yet in those final moments of lucidity, she found herself trying to feel something. Anything. Just to reassure her one last time that she had been– was alive.

And there it was. She felt something. Something deep and comforting and… sad.

She was sad.

And she didn't know why.

**  
**_"You'll never forget me, will you?"_

"_Giuseppe…"_

"_I know you won't forget me, Henrietta. Still–"_

"_I won't. I promise."_

"_Me, too."_

**  
**It was all Bianchi could do to keep his composure.

His patient was smiling. Despite– not _because_ _of_, but _despite_– the conditioning that was slowly erasing her memories, despite the fading knowledge that her very person was being violated, despite her dying, she was smiling.

**  
**"Giuseppe."

**  
**_She pushed through the double doors, made her way past them and into the blackness. The cavernous hall was dark and unfamiliar. She felt rather than saw her way through it, relying upon something she couldn't exactly define –Foresight? Instinct? Faith?- to guide her to whatever– to whoever it was that she sought._

_And there he was. The man held his arms out to her in welcome. His handsome features found her easily despite the darkness. His smile called out to her compellingly, powerfully._

"_Henrietta."_

_Henrietta?_

"_Come here," he urged. "Come here, Henrietta."_

_But she didn't know who he was. He was a stranger. Why should she do what he asked of her?_

"_Remember me. Don't forget me."_

_But how could she have forgotten? There wasn't anything to forget. Was there?_

"_Henrietta."_

_And who was Henrietta? She didn't know anyone by that name. She was–_

_She stopped._

_What is my name?_

_Who am I?_

_A familiar thunder startled her, broke the silence. Slowly the man before her fell to the ground and lay still._

_He was dead._

_And she felt…_

_Sad._

_She didn't know why, but she was sad._

_She turned to stare at his killer. At the blonde girl not much older than her. At green eyes that knew nothing of what their owner had done. At the gun leveled in her direction, aimed at her heart._

"_Kill me," the girl who was called Henrietta whispered. "I cannot live without him. So, please, kill me. Please"_

**  
**_Again a gunshot shattered the silence._

**  
**_She shuddered._ _Then something was tugging at her. Pulling her downwards. She tried to jerk away from it at first, tried to fight it off but found her body unresponsive. And then she simply surrendered, followed that insistent invisible nagging by toppling to the floor, joining the man from earlier._

_A thought came to her._

This is wrong.

_Why, she didn't know._

_Her hand lay limp just inches away from his outstretched own. She would have reached for it had she possessed the strength of body and mind. And she did. She wondered why she bothered._

_As she slowly died, she noticed one last thing. She thought her killer looked…_

_Sad._

**  
_"Why are you sad?"_**

**  
**The girl woke up to a white ceiling and a bland room. Her bed was spartan but comfy. The air was cold and clean, the kind found in a hospital.

She sat up to stare at nothing in particular and to wait.

Nothing happened.

She felt nothing.

She was not alone. The woman sitting at her bedside was tall and blonde. Green eyes watched her intently. Their intensity mystified her. Why the stare? Was something wrong with her?

"Henrietta?"

Not knowing what else to do, wondering if that was indeed her name, the girl nodded in affirmation.

The woman did not return the gesture. Neither did she try to smile.

"My name is Mireille. Mireille Bouquet."

**  
Tsuzuku**

**  
**Corsica's daughter enters the life of a fellow orphan– and discovers just how much they share. Next on _Life Goes On_: **Mireille.**


	5. Mireille

Mireille. Henrietta. Of one and the same steel. Forged through fire and baptized in blood.

They were both weapons.

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_ and _Noir_ are not mine.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_ and several years after _Noir_. It is inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction (the story _Battlezone_ and the characters Meir, Liesel, Kathryn and Altheus) and Deathra's poem_ Daddy's Girl_. The _Noir_ element is courtesy _Sho Tsuzuku_ and propelled by _Soldat #75664_'s interest.

**  
To _Soldat #75664: _**Mostly Mireille. Enjoy. As for Kirika? Still far off. Don't worry. She's doing pretty well. After all, she's my favorite _Noir_ character.

**To _Nachtsider_ and _Colonel Marksman_: **Thanks for your help in factual matters! Hope you don't mind another guest appearance from your fic, Colonel!

**To _Marian/Barbie_:** Here you go! Thanks for the appreciation!

**  
Fifth**

_**Mireille**_

**  
**"Henrietta? My name is Mireille. Mireille Bouquet. And I will be your partner."

**  
**"What will you name her?"

"She already has a name. Henrietta it is, and Henrietta it stays. It's best to keep things simple. We don't have to worry about tripping on our tongues when we accidentally call her something else.

"Besides," Mireille solemnly added. "She isn't really mine. She's Giuseppe's. Still is and always will be."

Jean nodded.

_Thank you, Miss Bouquet– Mireille._

**  
**She wasn't allowed to use the P227 and Five-Seven pistols or the FN P90 submachine gun. Not anymore. Not after Mireille pointed out at the last minute that the sight and smell and touch of them might trigger unpleasant memories with Henrietta. She made a very persuasive argument. No one wanted another Elsa de Sica.

The Kahr MK 40 became Henrietta's new sidearm. Though even smaller than the P227, the MK 40 had superior hitting power. Chambered for the powerful .40 S&W round, it packed a tremendous wallop in its compact package. Exactly like its wielder.

Next was a SITES Spectre M4 submachine pistol for close quarter battles. Though an old design dating from the late 1980s, it was pretty hard to beat, what with its fifty-round magazine and a vicious 850 rpm (rounds per minute) rate of fire coupled with simplicity of use and a rugged frame. Few did miniature machine guns better than the Italians, whose criminal underworld invented them in the first place according to legend.

Finally, Mireille tapped Fabrique Nationale to provide her ward's primary assault weapon. The Herstal F2000 multi-role modular assault rifle was a European version of the US Army's OICW (Objective Individual Combat Weapon) program, the answer to the so-called 'new world disorder' that was the current state of human affairs. The first truly ambidextrous 'bullpup' weapons system, it featured extreme ease of usage, cutting edge modular add-on equipment and the theoretical firepower of an entire squad of conventional soldiers. In the hands of a cyborg operative, it effectively became Death's own scythe.

Aside from training with her new weapons, Henrietta also received something far more invaluable: lessons from an old hand in the business.

"A gun is not just a tool," Mireille lectured while her ward assembled her F2000 rifle for the fourth time. "It must become an extension of your arm, of yourself. In effect, your gun must become part of you. And because it is a part of you, you must take responsibility for it. This is because a gun is meant to kill. It is not a toy. It is a weapon. You either use it, or you don't. What you choose to do with it in such a situation is up to you.

"When to draw. When to fire. What stance to use. One hand. Both hands. Standing. Combat crouch. On the move. From behind a rock or table– or a human shield. Directly ahead. Out of the corner of your eye. Without looking or even thinking. If you have to– or if you don't, but still must. Any combination of those. You have to be aware of your options. If needed, you have to pull them off on the fly.

"Awareness is also important. You have to be aware of your surroundings. The battlefield is constantly fluid. It always changes. There might be booby traps. More enemies might appear. Or one of your teammates. Whatever happens, you must be prepared to react.

"But don't overthink. Follow your instincts. You've got good instincts, Henrietta." _Of course you do,_ she didn't say aloud. _You had them before we erased your memories._ "Trust those instincts. Go with the flow. Just act."

Kirika came to mind, then. How the Japanese girl could almost automatically sense distant, hidden enemies and nail them without looking or breaking a sweat. And all with a dinky little 1932 Beretta built when both sets of their grandparents were just thinking to hook up. An impressed Mireille once teased her partner about being a modern day ninja, only toting an automatic instead of a _katana_.

Ninja? That was understating things. Kirika was a freaking witch.

Thinking of her this way made Mireille homesick. They hadn't seen each other in a while. Over a year, actually. Their only contacts were over e-mails and an occasional long distance call. Though Kirika seemed to be doing better than fine all alone, Mireille was still one to worry.

_They say that long distance relationships are all the more sweeter._

_Bullshit._

**  
**They kept her separated from her former siblings-in-arms. It was mostly for the others' sake than Henrietta's. While the experts expressed confidence in the conditioning's effectiveness (even with Mireille's timely call on the guns), they weren't quite sure as how the other cyborgs would take emotionally to the sight of their reprogrammed comrade. Someone feared for good reason that Rico, say, or especially Triela might blow away all the hard work invested into Henrietta's new conditioning by dropping one wrong word that would trigger a memory relapse.

It came to such that even Jean became annoyed at their excessive caution. "They should put their damn money where their mouths are," he fumed during one particularly stressful afternoon.

That was big news. Jean was always the cool one in the organization. If _he_ was annoyed, how were the 'hotheads' like Hirscher and Marco doing?

"Judging from Triela's latest complaints?" volunteered Priscilla. "Not very well."

The scary part was that everyone agreed.

Mireille finally put up a good compromise. They would gradually reintroduce Henrietta into operations, but at her discretion. That shifted the burden of responsibility onto her shoulders. If Henrietta screwed up or went berserk, it would be her fault. But it was fine. Mireille had run bigger risks before– including trusting one Yuumura Kirika.

And that last was a decision she never had cause to regret.

**  
**"NO!"

They were in the heat of a live fire training session. (Well, almost live fire. The bullets _were_ wax-tipped.) Henrietta was doing pretty well, clearing the sector of opponents without taking a single hit. It was while heading to her egress point that one last lurker popped out of nowhere.

There was no time to dodge. She instinctively raised her free arm to shield her face while shooting back one-handed with the Kahr. She got hit thrice. The wax was hot on her skin but bearable. The same could not be said for her target. The man took two bullets to the face and three on the chest. That was why everyone except Henrietta wore protective gear. To help deaden the pain.

As for Henrietta, cyborgs were mostly dead to pain, anyway.

But Mireille was there, snarling for a time out over the radio even as she stomped towards her ward.

"Henrietta! What the hell are you doing?"

"M-Miss Mireille? W-What do you mean?"

"I mean that stunt you pulled off just now! Blocking bullets with your arm!"

"I– I was just protecting myself…"

"No! That is not the way to go! Getting shot is a no-no! The rule is 'Don't get hit.' Bullets kill. I don't care if you're mostly bulletproof. In fact, I want you to disabuse yourself of that notion right now. You are not invincible. You might be able to take a couple more bullets than the average person out there, but you are not invincible. Repeat after me. I am not invincible."

"I am not invincible. I am not invincible."

"Good. Remember what I told you about situational awareness in a tactical scenario. Stay sharp. Always shoot first. Also, don't block. Dodge. Don't stop moving. Use the terrain. Keep nice big things between you and your enemy. Run away if you have to– and then double back to hit them when they least expect it. Don't stay in one place for long. Standing still is an invitation to get shot. And in my book, if you get shot, you're as good as dead. Got that?"

"Y-Yes! Sorry! I will do better the next time!"

"Don't overdo the apologies." The blonde woman sighed and shook her head. "It's also my fault. I keep on forgetting you girls are cyborgs and capable of stuff I can only dream off. An old fogy like me is getting outdated real quickly these days."

The unexpected protest surprised her.

"T-That's not true! You're not outdated! I appreciate what you teach me very much," Henrietta timidly ventured, "and I would like to learn more from you. If it is okay with you, that is…"

Mireille slowly smiled. "More than okay, 'Etta. Do you mind if I call you that?"

"Not at all. Uh, Miss Mireille?"

"Just 'Mireille' will do."

"Um, yes, yes. Mis- I mean, Mireille? Did you ever get shot?"

She nodded. Absently her right hand reached for her left shoulder, fingering the scar beneath her sleeve to remind herself anew of the painful lesson a girl called _Noir_ had taught her again and again.

"One too many times, 'Etta. One too many times."

**  
**Training wasn't eternal. Every Saturday was shopping day. Sundresses. Blouses and skirts. Coats. Shoes. Hats. Henrietta had always been the most well-dressed of Section Two's cyborgs. Then again, Giuseppe was only a man. Mireille had a lot more hands-on experience at playing dress-up. She had Kirika to thank for that.

The violin was set aside. Perhaps for good. Instead, Henrietta took up painting to improve her dexterity. She came to enjoy spending hours of her spare time dabbing colorful designs. Some of her works were quite good, enough to elicit sagely advice and gushy admiration.

"We could have Liesel give her lessons," Altheus mused once in passing.

"Maybe Aharon, too," chimed in Kathryn.

"Actually," Mireille wryly admitted, "I had someone else in mind for a tutor."

"Oh? But would they get along?"

She thought of a kitten and an ex-Foreign Legionnaire and the girl who cherished both in her heart. Mireille smiled.

"I daresay so, yes."

They talked a lot. About many things. About Mireille, mostly. Of course she had to condense her verbal autobiography, and either colored the truth in certain sensitive regions (basically anything linked to Soldats or assassination, which, regrettably, occupied most of her conscious life) or left them out entirely.

But mostly she focused on the happy events of the previous years. Her lighter 'adventures' –'exploits' was too high and mighty for a child's mind to comprehend. Her cases as a private investigator, especially the dangerous but ultimately satisfying pursuit of a white slave market, the results of which brought her into the eye of Jean and Section Two. Excerpts of normal everyday life with Kirika. Henrietta liked the story about the second Prince Mishkin, whom Kirika had plucked from a pound and who later proven to be 'Princess' after giving birth to quintuplets. Mireille had a ball trying to find six people who wanted a pet cat.

As she poured out select portions of her heart to her captive audience, Mireille realized how much she and Henrietta had in common. They were both orphans, mere children when they lost their families to violence. They fell into the depths of depression, but were lifted up from that blank void by people they came to regard as angels –Kirika for Mireille, Giuseppe for Henrietta.

Now they lived as gunslinger girls.

They had to. They knew no other paths. Their lives had been controlled and shaped from the very beginning, making them into what they were now.

Altena. Section Two. There was no real difference between them. They were makers. Creators. The same with their _obra maestros_.

Mireille. Henrietta. Of one and the same steel. Forged through fire and baptized in blood.

They were both weapons.

They talked about themselves. About their operational relationship. Mireille noticed early on the vastly different manners of interaction for each _Fratello_ team. Jean treated Rico as a tool, though he had mellowed as of late. Altheus was Liesel's aloof commander. In contrast, Hirscher and Triela were the perfect image of mostly-squabbling, sometimes-loving siblings (or, on a naughtier note brought up by Priscilla and a point of humor for the Section Two rank and file, a love-hate romantic couple) while Marco was Angelica's over-demanding, but overprotective, father.

And there was Claes. All alone. _Beautiful alone,_ the girl in question would insist. Everyone agreed with her.

Mireille followed their lead. She chose a unique approach, one she was comfortable with.

"Partners?"

"That's right. Partners work together to achieve a goal they share. Idealistically, they are equals who share the same ideals, goals and maybe even interests. Most importantly, partners must trust each other. Otherwise, they will not be able to work together effectively."

"So," Henrietta slowly enunciated, "So I'm your partner."

"Yeah."

"Mireille? Have you ever had any other partner?"

"Yeah. Just one. She was the best. Probably still is," she mused.

The envious Henrietta put on her characteristic "wounded puppy guilt trip" at that. The effect was so devastatingly cute, Mireille just had to laugh. She rumpled her partner's brown hair fondly while smiling in reassurance.

"You're good, 'Etta. You're good."

**  
**That night, Mireille dreamed.

She dreamed of the time Kirika killed her parents before her very eyes. Except that it wasn't Kirika pulling the trigger, but Henrietta.

_Something's wrong._

She didn't know what or why, only that it was.

Henrietta turned on her. The girl's face was full of– joy?

"Thank you."

_For what?_

Then she shot Mireille through the heart.

Falling, she thought she saw another child peeking at the doorway. It wasn't Chloe. The newcomer looked like that quiet bookworm girl, the one who wore eyeglasses and rarely, if ever, talked. Claes.

_Why is she there?_

She found herself inside an operating room, strapped onto a table. The same table Henrietta had been 'reconditioned', she realized with a chill. The doctors were there. Bianchi. Massi. Nameless others. None of them looked friendly.

"Is this the new mechanical body?"

Mireille gasped.

Jean coldly looked down at her.

"Its name will be Mireille."

**  
**Mireille woke up screaming.

**  
**Henrietta found her partner's odd mood a cause for concern. Normally Mireille was the professionally confident sort. Not today. Her face was tight, her movements edgy. As if she was being hunted. It showed. She avoided looking at Henrietta for the most part and all but jumped when she ran into Bianchi. The good doctor was just as mystified, but stayed only long enough to remind them of the important meeting for the day before heading back to his office.

She tried not to make anything out of it at first. Instead she concentrated on memorizing the faces and names of the people she would soon be working with. It was only outside the conference room that Henrietta finally gathered enough courage to ask the forbidden question.

"Mireille? Is there anything wrong?"

The pause was all the proof she needed. Mireille's all-too-obvious denial was unnecessary underscoring.

"No. Nothing's wrong."

It was a lie.

And it hurt.

To Mireille's surprise, Henrietta began to cry.

"'Etta?"

"You said– but you said that partners trusted each other. That they had to trust each other, or else they couldn't work together."

A small, tear-stricken face looked up to the woman she had come to admire so much in the recent weeks.

"Don't you trust me?" she pleaded.

And in that sorrowing face, Mireille saw Kirika yet again.

_Why? Why can't I feel anything when I kill people?_

The blonde sighed.

"I trust you, 'Etta. I trust you with my life. It's just that some things have to be kept a secret– even between partners."

_Like what I've done. Like what we've done to you._

"I wish I can tell you all of it. But some of it is very painful for me and maybe for you, too. Until I'm ready– until the both of us are prepared, I'd rather keep it a secret. Do you understand? Henrietta?"

"Yes. Yes, Mireille. I understand."

"Good girl. Let's go in. Jean will be cross if we're late. After all," she softly murmured, "_we_ are the issue at hand."

**  
**All the greeting they got from Jean was a curt nod. (To be exact, his left eyebrow rose almost imperceptibly upon noting Mireille flinch at the sight of him. He wondered if there was a smudge on his face or something.) The same could not be said for his audience.

All the cyborgs teams, Section Two and Childville both, were in that room.

Rico. Meir. Triela. Liesel. Claes. Aharon. Even Angelica, though the last girl was in a wheelchair.

Everyone stared. At Henrietta, like they had seen a ghost. Their reactions mystified Henrietta.

Triela then noticed Mireille. She promptly glared daggers. As expected of the willful blonde. Mireille considered it lucky that Hirscher was there to keep his partner in hand. Then again, considering that the big German didn't look happy either…

And then to everyone's surprise, Henrietta placed her small body in front of her much taller handler, matching Triela's burning blue eyes with her own brown ones, a physical shield against the silent condemnation thrown Mireille's way. The brown-haired girl's face was quietly set, but there was no mistaking her silent message.

_I won't let you hurt Mireille. So: don't. Stop._

Startled by the challenge, biting her lip in concern, Triela relented from engaging in an eyeball contest. She had no hankering for one. Not with the girl who was once– and still was– her friend.

Even if she didn't know it.

Jean cleared his throat. "Settle down, everyone," he ordered. "Remember what we talked about."

Though they did so by various degrees, everyone followed orders and generally kept quiet. Mireille began to unwind from the tenseness that had seized her joints. But she could not get rid of her uneasiness at the scene just earlier.

Henrietta was willing to kill her friends in order to protect her handler.

"Everyone, you all know Miss Mireille Bouquet. Her partner will be Henrietta. They will be working with us for the foreseeable future…"

Henrietta wondered what Jean meant by his earlier order. Why the people in the room, especially the other cyborgs, seemed shocked by her appearance. She was sure she had never met any of them before. After all, she did not find one familiar face.

And why the angry reactions to Mireille's presence? Her partner was a good person. _She_ knew. Why didn't the others know?

She then noticed the dark-haired girl, the one wearing eyeglasses, intently observing her. The girl's gaze made Henrietta feel cold. As if she could see into her soul.

_Why? Why?_

**  
**Freda Claes Johansson pushed her glasses up her nose and nodded to herself. So _she_ noticed. Good.

_Henrietta. Remember. For your sake and ours. Remember him._

_Remember Giuseppe._

**  
**"Our target is the Covenant Reformation Group…"

**  
Tsuzuku**

**  
**She remembers. She remembers him. Next on _Life Goes On_: **_Memoria_** **(Memory)**


	6. Memoria

"_Silly little girl. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing."_

_So saying, she walked off, leaving the befuddled Henrietta to her own confusion._

_And to wonder why the words 'silly little girl' hurt so much..._

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl _and _Noir_ are not mine. So is the third series I'm introducing.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_ and several years after _Noir_. It precedes my stories _Her Prince Charming_ and _Beautiful Alone._Characters and elements of a third series were adapted to fit into the _Gunslinger Girl/Noir_ timeline.

**  
Inspiration: **Inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction and Deathra's_ Daddy's Girl_. The _Noir_ element is courtesy _Sho Tsuzuku_ and propelled by _Soldat #75664_ and _Barbie_'s interest. And a little dash of a third series. Despite these, this story is still _Gunslinger Girl_.

**  
Sixth**

_**Memoria**_

**(Memories)**

**  
**The tourist easily caught the two lookouts' undue attention. She possessed everything a man could want: long, golden blonde hair, mysterious intelligence in those deep green eyes, a striking face, long legs, sexy body and great breasts. Appreciative, too, blowing a flirty flying kiss their way once she noticed their admiring gazes.

"France sure builds them _fine_."

"Damn straight!"

They laughed. The blonde –she was Corsican, not French– fondly smiled at them before disappearing into the crowded hotel lobby– but not before spotting, and unobtrusively gesturing to, the person she was looking for.

The young schoolgirl in the less crowded part of the lobby went almost unnoticed throughout her half hour wait. The lookouts briefly noted her somber presence, especially the way she possessively but cutely held on to her Amati violin case while staring at them like the lost little girl she was, before going on to more productive things, like the recent bombshell that passed by. Neither of them swung for kids. The younger man was an expectant father, even.

She spotted the blonde woman immediately. As earlier ordered, an arrangement confirmed by a subtle hand gesture, the girl did not react, waiting a little while longer so as not to be obvious. Ten minutes later, she finally ran off to meet with her partner.

"You ready, 'Etta?"

"Ready, Miss Mireille."

"Final checks, then. And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille."

A Walther P99 came out of the blonde's Gucci shoulder bag and went into a side holster. Her suitcase carried an MP-7 PDW loaded with 4.6x30mm armor-piercing rounds. Her young companion's Amati case revealed a doughty Italian Spectre M4 submachine gun. After checking her primary weapon, the girl then drew the Kahr MK40 strapped to the small of her back, armed it, pulled the slide back to check if there was a round chambered and replaced it in its holster.

Mireille nodded to Henrietta.

"Let's go."

"Roger."

**  
**_"We've received reports that the CRG is holding a big arms deal with an unknown party. NATO's deep penetration agent sent word that both sides will be holding serious deliberations in this hotel. According to our source, the arms dealers will be bringing certain documents as proof of their merchandise and good faith. NATO itself would move if they weren't so penetrated at a high level. That's why they approached us in secret._

"_Our objectives are to capture those documents and, if possible, representatives of both the CRG and the arms dealers for interrogation. Our operatives' safety precedes that of the enemies'. However, if an opportunity to take prisoners arises, take it._

"_The support teams will secure the area around the hotel. The Fratello teams will then move in to clear the area. Since the building is expansive and the enemy's entourage large, we will be committing all of our available operatives– including our Childville guests, if they don't mind too much."_

_Kathryn grinned. "We'll think of it as one big social event."_

"_Thank you. Continuing, since we will be fighting indoors, our teams will be equipping our assigned CQC weapons. Rico and Meir will provide support from outside. However, sniper weapons will probably not be very effective, so our indoor teams will be mostly on their own. The usual rules apply._

"_One final thing. The military's deep penetration agent, codenamed Four, will be there at the meeting. You'll recognize her almost immediately as she is the only woman in the group. Be careful not to shoot her. It wouldn't do for extra-service relations if we kill an important NATO agent by accident."_

_Everyone chuckled or shook their heads in amusement at that light remark._

"_Any questions?" There were none. "Good. Then good luck to all of us."_

**  
**Blazing muzzle flash and terrible thunder of the Spectre preceding her, Henrietta tumbled out of the corner corridor and onto a partially kneeling position, killing two terrorists before they could react. Mireille gunned down the third, stood guard while her partner quickly reloaded. Once done, she switched places with Henrietta, her MP7 taking point.

It was an old lesson taught by Mireille's uncle, one of her better memories from those destructively driven days so long ago. She perfected the tactic with Kirika, using it with devastating effect during their final assault on Soldats. With Henrietta as her partner, Mireille became unstoppable.

The corridor split without warning. Mireille went left while Henrietta took the passageway on the right. The girl proceeded quickly through her assigned area, encountering no foes but keeping her guard up. Then she heard nearby automatic gunfire. AKs and a submachine gun that sounded somewhat similar to Mireille's MP-7. The thought of her partner in danger galvanized Henrietta into an angry run.

Everything went silent, still.

Two dead men, one splayed against the pockmarked wall, another sprawled upon the floor. Their AK-47s told her they were CRG, the enemy.

Sensing movement behind her, she spun around, finger on the trigger, ready to unload fifty rounds worth of death into the target not five paces away.

Henrietta stared into the muzzle of Claes' MP-5K.

**  
**"_Hello."_

_She and Mireille went over the list the day before the meeting, memorizing faces and names. Henrietta did pretty well, needing only a couple of tries before getting them down pat. She wondered why her partner seemed distant._

_All Fratello teams were present at the meeting. Per Mireille's instructions from earlier, Henrietta began identifying them. Rico was the blonde girl with boyishly short hair. The tanned Triela tied her longer hair into twin thin ponytails. Wheelchair-bound Angelica wore a cute blue ribbon on her own black mane. Liesel's defining characteristic wasn't so much her facial features but an aura of professional candor._

_There were also the two Childville agents, both boys. Henrietta identified Meir by way of his European (Italian, specifically, Mireille curiously noted) features and his being almost always beside Rico. That meant Aharon would be the leaner, darker Israeli._

_Finally, this last girl. Long bluish-black hair with flanking hair clips. Grayish-blue eyes. Eyeglasses._

_Freda Claes Johansson._

_Henrietta wasn't exactly sure why she chose Claes to approach. Maybe it was because she didn't hit it off with Triela at first, the blonde having all but openly threatened Mireille. First impressions did count. If not for that grave offense against her handler, she felt that they might have otherwise gotten along well enough._

_She wondered how she guessed that._

"_Hello. I'm Henrietta."_

_The girl didn't even stir."I know."_

"_Um, okay."_

_Claes refused to look her in the face while they talked. As if avoiding eye contact. Or denying that she was there, that she was real. Denying that she existed. Like everyone else was doing._

Why?

"_Um... Claes? Have… we… met before?"_

_The dark-haired girl kept staring straight ahead at empty space. "No."_

"_I… I guess you're right…" Henrietta bowed her head, conceding defeat. "I'm sorry to bother you. I guess it's nothing, really…"_

_And that was when Claes turned to glare._

"_Silly little girl. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing."_

_So saying, she walked off, leaving the befuddled Henrietta to her own confusion._

_And to wonder why the words 'silly little girl' felt so painful..._

**  
**Both girls lowered their weapons at once.

"Claes?"

That merited a curios tip of the head. "You remembered my name?"

"Of course. Mireille made me memorize everyone's names before the mission." Her smile faded upon noticing the brunette's piercing gaze. "Um, is there anything wrong?"

"Nothing." Beneath her breath, but still audible to Henrietta's enhanced hearing and definitely contributing to the girl's bafflement: "Nothing and everything…"

"Henrietta!"

Mireille was surprised to find her ward with a friend. "You're Claes, right?"

"Yes."

"Have you cleared your sector?"

"Yes." Six bodies, she didn't say.

"Good. Can you back us up?"

"Roger."

They ran. Mireille fought an urge to shudder inwardly. She did look over her shoulder once or twice. Grimly soundless, without a word or feeling, Claes followed.

Just like Kirika.

Again she fingered her right shoulder. Still there. The rough scar tissue from when they fought in those ancient ruins. It never healed quite right, remained the one blemish upon her otherwise fair skin.

Some old wounds never went away.

**  
**The enemy was ready for them this time, having the benefit of a warning from the two sentries Claes took down earlier. No less than half a dozen automatic rifles, submachine guns and machine pistols opened up soon as Mireille cautiously poked her head past the wall. She ducked back into the shelter of the T-junction's corner, stuck her Walther out and began firing blindly on the off chance she might hit someone.

Behind her, Henrietta patiently waited.

The MP-5 family of guns hardly made much sound, even when on fully automatic. Claes was even quieter. A ghost, she practically materialized behind the guards, emptying twenty rounds of nine millimeter hollow point into the backs of four unsuspecting men, killing them instantly. The survivors frantically turned. Henrietta saw her chance, darted into the corridor. Her Spectre stuttered, clicked empty, hit the floor. Out came her Kahr. Mireille's Walther lent its smaller brethren roars of support.

Only two out of ten terrorists survived the hail of bullets from both sides, falling back into the room they were just exiting. Shouts of angry alarm sounded. More people inside. The bulk of the CRG delegation was still there.

Henrietta and Claes blockaded the entrance while Mireille radioed in their situation. "'Etta? Got any grenades? None? Claes?"

Both girls shook their heads.

"Damn. It's a stalemate, then." The sound of shattering glass, followed by a yelp of fright and a chirp on the team's radio, corrected her.

"This is Kathryn. We got one. He was trying to get out the window."

"The others?"

"Hiding. We can't get them from here, but we sure gave them something new to think about."

"How many left?"

"Not sure. Maybe six or seven. Meir! There!" Again the Stoner's muted report. "Dang! Missed!"

"Cease fire!" Jean. "Agent Four is inside the room!"

"Roger. Hold your fire, Meir."

Mireille debated her options. Sending Henrietta and Claes in to clear the room was the most obvious and efficient one. Two mechanical bodies were more than enough to eliminate what opposition remained while sparing the NATO undercover agent stuck in the middle of the war zone. Certainly both girls would survive.

But all it took was one look at Henrietta's eager face for her to decide against that.

**  
**_"She counts the bodies she made for him."_

_Mireile stared. "She does?"_

"_Yes. She kept track of them. Like test scores. She really wanted him to be happy with her. Even if people must die, even if she needed to kill people, if only he was happy with her, then she was happy as well. All the girls do it, I believe. Some don't mention it. Some don't notice or care. But they do."_

_Jean turned. "And she will probably do the same for you."_

"_Why are you telling me this?"_

"_Because it is better for you to know what you're getting into, Mireille, that's why."_

And because we don't want another Raballo_, he left unsaid._

**  
**"Hirscher and Triela are proceeding up the fire escape. ETA is four minutes."

"Good." The blonde junior operative carried a couple of stun grenades. "Kathryn? Soon as they're in position, have Meir and Rico –" the latter sniper just arriving at Kathryn's station "–start laying in their shots through the windows. Keep the enemy pinned until Triela tosses in the flash bang. Then we'll hit them from both sides simultaneously, Triela through the window while we storm the front door."

"Okay. Looks like at least one of them is CRG brass," Kathryn noted.

"Try to take him alive," Jean ordered. "And remember, Agent Four is in there as well. Be careful."

"Roger that."

Manmade thunder erupted from within the room. Two minutes and fifty-four seconds too soon.

"Damn!"

"What the–"

"Miss Mireille!" In her excitement, Henrietta forgot to refer to her handler informally. "Something's happening!"

"What's going on?"

"Hold your fire!" It was a woman's voice. "I've got the situation under control now. We're coming out. Hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire."

As she gestured for Henrietta and Claes to stand by, Mireille held her breath. _Could it be–_

Four men trudged out of the room, hands raised in surrender. The fifth and last person to exit the room was a young woman around Mireille's age, a captured Steyr MPP machine pistol leveled at her glum prisoners. She gave the gathered Section Two operatives a snappy salute before tipping her rimless aviator eyeglasses up her nose with a free forefinger.

"Sergeant Major Fiolina Germi, Italian Army Special Operations Branch, NATO Forces' Government Intelligence Agency's 'Sparrow Squad', codename 'Four'." The operative's small smile was one of warm relief. "What took you?"

Sergeant Major Germi –Fio, as she insisted upon everyone– was one of several deep penetration agents who successfully infiltrated the CRG months ago to pave the way for the terrorist group's destruction. Even now, a second operation against the CRG's leadership and main striking arm– a search-and-destroy mission by NATO's elite Sparrow Squad commando team– was coming to a victorious close. By the end of the month, the CRG would be rendered impotent by the combined actions of Section Two and Sparrow Squad.

The preliminary interrogation of the captured terrorists proved both fruitful and, oddly enough, entertaining. A one-way mirror provided an anonymous ringside view of the grim comedy. The terrorist was more battered than the surface of the old wooden table Hirscher was mashing his face into. The German was the very picture of his country's mythical Erlkoënig monster. In contrast, Jean was 'ineffectively' trying to restrain his partner.

"That's enough, Hirscher."

The man let out a flurry of harsh-sounding German oaths, but allowed his compantion to pull him away from his quarry.

"Is he always like this?" Fio, there on request of the military, asked curiously. "Officer Hirscher, I mean?"

"You should see him on bad days," Priscilla told the soldier. "Like, when Triela puts him up to her usual antics."

"Is it just me," and Amadeo sounded rather intimidated, "or is Hirscher taking the 'bad cop' drill _too_ seriously?"

"To the hilt, even," Fio agreed.

"Yeah, but Jean's even funnier, if you think about it. Who'd have thought he makes a really convincing 'good cop'?"

"Never!" Priscilla grinned at their dumbstruck 'guard'. "Well, Triela? What do you think of your Prince Charming?"

The wide-eyed junior operative stared at the sight of her partner terrorizing terrorists. A small gulp escaped her dry throat.

"Scary…"

**  
**Flush with the stellar success of their mission, the _Fratello_ teams celebrated (or not) per their individual custom.

The dinner at a posh restaurant was subdued. Triela avoided directly looking into Hirscher's eyes, nodded in absent agreement at every topic broached and all but jumped out of her skin when he asked her to pass him the salt. While he found his junior partner's sudden spate of obedience a relaxing change, he was also a bit disappointed. Somehow, the day didn't feel complete without their squabbling over something.

_And I took a leaf out of Giuseppe's book just for tonight. Looks like this routine only works on Henrietta, though. Ugh…_

Meanwhile, Triela was trying to erase the diabolic baby-eating mental caricature constructed by her mind's eye for her handler. And failed miserably.

_I should shoot myself in the eye for wishing Hirscher having more personality to him. My God, but what the hell was I thinking? I've created a monster, a monster!_

Handler and junior operative both started when their gazes met by accident.

"The pasta was good!" Triela hastily assured. "Very good!"

Hirscher almost grimaced. "Oh. Okay. I see."

Ignored were half-eaten plates of _fettuccine_ Alfredo and partially filled glasses of Amaretto.

**  
**"Mr. Marco? Could you read the pasta story to me again?"

"Sure. Okay, now where were we last?" He skimmed through the storybook, smiled as he found the page. "Ah. Here we are. When Prince Pasta met Princess Pizza…"

**  
**Rico was winded from excitement and running. Jean let her off early in order to meet with the Chief. She immediately went looking for Meir, found Aharon instead in the boys' quarters. He was helpful, though, clueing her to the general whereabouts of his teammate.

"_Meir left a while ago. Try Kathryn's quarters. He mentioned he was going to meet with her. I'm sure you'll catch up with him if you run."_

She took his advice to heart. Rico ran as fast as she could. Her head felt so light. Her heart thumped like mad, hammering so hard that she almost tripped. But she only giggled at her sudden clumsiness and kept running.

_Is this what it means to feel in love?_

And there he was. She was about to blurt his name aloud, but realized he wasn't alone.

**  
**"But I still think you could have nailed that second guy!" pressed the laughing Kathryn.

Meir laughed as well, even as he raised a hand to 'defend' himself from her playful bop. His handler had never stopped razzing him for his missing his second target during the operation, even mock-threatening to cancel his well-earned reward.

"But I could have hit Miss Germi…"

"Nonsense! She said she never went anywhere near the windows– and besides, you'd have certainly have recognized her as a girl even from that distance. Or are you telling me that you need eyeglasses like Claes?"

"Of course not!" Then he noticed the blonde girl not ten paces away. "Ah! Rico! Kathryn is taking me out to watch a movie. Do you want to come with us? We could ask Jean for permi–"

Without answering, she turned around and walked– no, ran away as quickly as possible.

"Rico? Wait! Rico!"

She wasn't listening or caring. The only thing she could see was Meir's joy at being with his handler. With _Kathryn_. Not _her_.

_Oh, Meir…_

Rico couldn't help but cry.

**  
**Her art pencil stopped in mid-stroke at the sound of knocking upon her door.

"Henrietta? Can I come in?"

"Miss Mireille! Oh, yes, please."

The older woman entered. She seemed hesitant, almost shy.

"Henrietta? Would you like to have tea with me?"

She instantly dropped everything in her overjoyed rush to stand up, including the art book. "Yes! I mean, yes, Miss Mireille. I would love to."

"Great. Come along. And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille."

Before they left, Mireille glanced at her ward's abandoned draft. Her smile saddened.

A handsome man stared at the sunset from the balcony of his seaside villa. His smile was kind.

**  
**Claes locked the door of her private study room. On the third level of the wall-mounted bookcase, from behind the romance novellas she obsessed over, she withdrew a thin notebook.

The neat, precise handwriting spanning those pages was hers. The words and thoughts contained within were not. She was merely a recorder, a scribe who copied the work of another– and the recipient of that very same work.

It was a journal. The life story of a man who had once been very close with her, long gone, only now remembered.

In a sense, he was her father.

**  
**_Today, Claes frightened me._

_It was during a weapons training sessions. Giuseppe and his mechanical body– Henrietta, that's her name– were there with us. Everything was proceeding fine. Then Henrietta's gun jammed. She made a traditional rookie mistake. Curious, she looked into her gun's barrel while her finger was still on the trigger._

_I reacted. I knocked Henrietta down, batted her gun away. Otherwise, the damned thing would have- _**might**_ have fired, killing her instantly. Giuseppe stepped in. I lost my temper and hit him, calling him a fool for being so lax. I didn't realize that Henrietta saw me hitting Giuseppe. She picked up a table and was about to throw it at me._

_Claes jumped in. She put herself between me and Henrietta. And she was about to shoot Henrietta in order to protect me._

_I knocked her gun away. Luckily she hit nothing but ceiling and wall. Giuseppe called off Henrietta. We avoided disaster, but only by a small margin. Claes was returned to the hospital for repairs– for brainwashing. Giuseppe managed to keep Henrietta from suffering the same fate._

_He really is stronger than everyone gives him credit for._

_As I think about that incident, I realize what an old and useless fart I am. And how much Claes frightened me. She was willing to kill anyone and everyone if I was in danger. I don't know how to control that kind of automatic killing instinct._

_And I worry. I worry for her. She's a good girl. She doesn't deserve this kind of treatment. She ought to be living a perfectly normal life instead of being made to kill people, like she was a weapon and not a–_

**  
**Claes blinked. Her glasses were all misty. Her eyes were wet. Removing them, she spotted blots upon the last lines and wondered.

_Perspiration? No. Tears? Was I crying? When did I begin crying?_

She didn't ask why. She only knew she remembered.

She remembered.

She remembered _him_.

**  
**"Sir Raballo…"

**  
**"The operation was an unqualified success, Chief," Jean reported.

"And Henrietta's performance?"

"Excellent."

"I see. Her reconditioning was worth it, then."

"Yes. Yes, it was."

"I understand Miss Bouquet took command of the operation towards the end?"

"Yes. She was in the best position to do so. It was a good call on her part. She did very well."

"Your choice of her as Henrietta's new partner was prescient."

"Luck of the draw."

"Being modest, are we, Jean?" When he only nodded, Lorenzo continued, "Anything new?"

"One of Section One's commando teams was wiped out yesterday. They lost ten mean, two complete squads."

Such news would have been cause for secret celebration a year ago. There was no love lost between the two organizations. Section One resented its upstart, unconventional sibling's success, doing everything they could to hinder Section Two short of a direct military assault on the latter's personnel and base.

But things were different now. Draghi was dead for almost a year now. An old friend of sorts replaced him. Though rather full of himself due his major promotion and recent marriage, acting Section One Chief Pietro Fermi was an affable man, very helpful and friendly. Section Two had Giuseppe and Henrietta to thank for the current reign of relative peace.

_And look how we thank them, _Jean bitterly thought. _We bury my brother with honors, but give Henrietta over to a stranger._

_Gratitude is a disease of the dogs, indeed._

"What happened?"

"They don't know for sure. It was supposed to be a relatively easy mission. The targets were not especially well-armed or trained. Certainly they possessed neither the capability to effectively resist a raid or any reason to expect one."

"Do we know anything Section One doesn't?"

"Only hearsay, nothing solid."

"Hearsay?"

"That the commandos were wiped out by a single person."

The room went silent.

"It was a young boy," was Jean's dark addition.

A strange dread began to build within the Chief's office. "How young?"

"Perhaps twelve or thirteen."

"That _is_ news," Lorenzo finally murmured.

Both men knew what that could have– did mean.

Massi and Bianchi arrived. The latter bore a thin stack of documents. Both men were grim.

"Bad news, Chief, Jean." While Massi talked, Bianchi handed his superiors the papers he carried. "These are copies of documents we captured from the CRG and arms dealers. It's something we've suspected for a while, but never really confirmed until–"

Jean stared.

There was no mistake. He was no technician or scientist, but he recognized the depicted weapon system. He should. After all, he was intimately connected with their development and production, currently commanded a number of them, and was personally responsible for one such unit.

In his hands were plans for a mechanical body.

**  
**This boy has a mechanical body. But he is still a thirteen year old child. Next on _Life Goes On_ **_Il Ragazzo_** **(Young Boy)**


	7. Il Ragazzo

"_The sword has long been superseded by the gun as the warrior's weapon. Swordsmen have been reduced into anachronisms. Stubborn holdovers from an era long dead. A quaint but endangered species. Dinosaurs. All but extinct._

"_Which is why I trained you as a swordsman." The man gave his student a conspiratorial smile. "It's nice to prove everyone wrong once in a while."_

_The boy grinned back. "It is."_

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Metal Slug_ and _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ are not mine. The original characters in my story are my creations (don't worry; I'll kill off most of them before this chapter is done). Certain lines adapted from _The Light Before We Land_ (Gunslinger Girl OP theme). Also featured is the song _Life Goes On_ from _Gundam Seed Destiny_.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_ and an unspecified time in_ TSR_.

**  
Inspiration: **Inspired by Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction and Deathra's_ Daddy's Girl_. The _Noir_ element is courtesy _Sho Tsuzuku_ and propelled by _Soldat #75664_ and _Barbie_'s interest. A little dash of a _Metal Slug_. Some _TSR_. And I'll be damned if I don't acknowledge _Triangle Hearts _as inspiration for my OC's battle scene. However, this story is still _Gunslinger Girl_. Enjoy.

**  
Seventh**

_**Il Ragazzo**_

**(Young Boy)**

**  
**The boy's eyes were closed, the better to block out the world. His thoughts dwelt on better days. Days when things were still beautiful, not bland. Days when he was free to be whoever he wanted to be. When life still felt like– no, when it _was_ real.

_And when I feel like I can feel once again: please. Please let me stay in it awhile… soak it in for a while. Because… because if I can hold on, then maybe… just maybe, I can fix what's wrong with me. So please… buy me a little time… for this head of mine… haven for me…_

Electronic crackling cut into his reverie. Hearing his name spoken, he answered. His voice was soft and gentle, unsuited for the task at hand.

"Yes?"

"They're coming."

No need elaborating on who 'they' were. Only what he needed to know. Two commando squads, ten men total. His unseen commander relayed locations, speed and paths of both enemy forces.

"What are my orders?"

His question was rhetoric, purely for display. To show everyone listening in who was in charge and who was the weapon.

"Search and destroy. Eliminate all opposition."

He sighed. Dark blue pupils sought out the last vestiges of bright warmth in the waking dusk of a faded world. Found none. Felt cold. Shook it off and steadied his breathing. A hand rose to brush back a stray frond of black hair.

"Roger."

His left hand– he was ambidextrous by nature– found his main weapon's walnut handle. He fingered the familiar decorative embossments and incisions on that black ivory hilt. The action soothed his mind and soul. His senses hadn't departed him yet. He was still there. He was still alive.

Enough of extraneous thoughts and feelings. He didn't need the brief check. He knew he was prepared.

Today, though, he had an audience.

**  
**Inside the dark bowels of the unfinished communal apartment, Lieutenant Paolo Forelli gestured for Second Squad, First Platoon to methodically the area for the enemy.

They found none.

_Lucky break for the bad guys_._ They get to live just a little longer._

First Platoon was half of Section One's anti-terrorist commando force. Its troopers were veterans drawn from the Italian armed forces' special operation units, the Carabinieri and occasionally the regular police force. Like any special ops unit, they considered themselves to be the best. This was especially the case when comparisons with their sister organization arose. _We may not be bulletproof like Section One's dolls,_ First Platoon's commanders reiterated day after day,_ but we're a damned sight better._

Today's mission was relatively easy. Intelligence tracked a small group of Padania terrorists to a government-funded construction area in Naples. For once the explanation was simple and obvious. Padania was up to its usual "North versus South" racket, planning for a big bang to underline their verbal filibusters.

Section One would put a quick end to their nonsense.

Aggressively scouting ahead was Lieutenant Milo D'Agosta's First Squad. Typical of the former Marine and avid boxer. Forelli was ex-Carabinieri, hence his more cautious approach. But both men were good, their teams top notch. They all geared up for bear. Bulletproof vests, helmets, night vision gear, silenced M-16A2 automatic rifles and MP-5 SD2 submachine guns, plus fragmentation and flash bang grenades. Their prey: men.

Everyone was in high spirits. Section One routinely crossed paths with Padania. And always won.

"An exercise," D'Agosta brashly announced that morning briefing. He was the Platoon commander's 'personal pet', was never wrong.

Fifteen minutes into the 'exercise', things began to go wrong.

**  
**The first kill was the easiest. Always was. Crouched upon an overhead support girder, just another shadow, he waited until the first enemy squad passed him. Until his chosen target, Tail End Charlie– a morbid term for the last man in a formation–, slowed just a bit to check their six, intentionally lagging behind and out of sight of his team.

He struck. Black monofilament quickly looped around the commando's neck. It took only a slight tensing of his fingers and wrists to tighten it, only a moment for the doomed man to notice something was amiss. Then, gripping the wires tight, the boy soundlessly dropped from his perch opposite the bigger man, pulling down hard even as his feet hit the ground.

His falling weight and sudden motion jerked the soldier upwards a foot or so, instantly snapping the man's neck, the wire lightly cutting into skin and muscle and a scream. The boy braced himself, yanked harder, didn't release until the body on the other end went completely still. Only then did he let it slump to the ground.

The boy sighed.

_One down. Four more to go._

Gathering himself, he exploded into a noiseless run. The main enemy group wasn't that far off, was just now turning back to check on their missing teammate. He'd use that slight bafflement to get in close. To stealthily take down at least one more target before finally engaging them outright.

Hunter was now hunted.

**  
**"Alpha, this is Bravo. Come in. Alpha, come in. Alpha? Milo? Can you hear me? Someone, come in! Come in, damn it!"

No one answered. The lines were still jammed.

Lieutenant Forelli cursed.

Instincts told him it was a trap. Training and procedure called for a pull-out and reassessment of the situation. First Squad was probably gone, anyway.

But he couldn't leave his fellow commandos behind. Not while there was a chance someone in First Squad was still alive. Not while they were still alive.

No one gets left behind.

Not for the first time, Forelli wished for his old partner back in the Carabinieri. Good man in a storm. Too bad Giuseppe chose to join the dollhouse instead. For such a man to die in a car accident– but that was a month ago. No time for that.

"We'll continue the mission."

**  
**The boy dwelt within self-inflicted darkness, his breathing relaxed, meditating upon his next steps.

He had just destroyed an entire squad of well-trained and heavily-armed soldiers. It wasn't as difficult as his _sensei_ had feared. He even had time to leave a surprise message for the police clean-up teams. His mission was good as done.

But the situation had changed. Against established protocol, the second enemy squad doubled back, following the path of the first squad. The enemy leader merited attention. His elimination took top priority.

Now things got harder. The opposition was alerted to his presence now. But they were built to fight an enemy similar in composition and organization to their own. They did not know, nor were ready for, the likes of _him_. He'd play on that uncertainty soon enough. For now, he waited.

**  
**The troopers of Second Squad were good soldiers. No one questioned their new orders. None betrayed outward signs of fear and confusion. Instead, they dwelt upon their self-proclaimed invincibility for reassurance.

_We're prepared. Whatever happened to First Squad, it won't happen to us._

They happened on the first body soon enough. Gleaming metal wires hung taut from an overhead girder. The razor lengths were still wrapped tight around their unlucky victim. Forelli's previous training as a policeman went into action. Though the wires were deep into the man's neck, it wasn't strangulation or blood loss that caused his death, but a broken neck.

From then on, someone always checked the ceiling.

Not far from the first, another corpse sprawled upon a still-expanding pool of blood. Half a dozen stab wounds perforated his back. Judging by the spent casings and bullet marks decorated the area, Forelli deduced that the man managed to fire his weapon, but didn't hit anything. The discharge would have warned the rest of First Squad. For all the good that did.

Undeterred by the violence they witnessed, furious at the enemy and at their own helplessness, Second Squad cautiously moved on. Agonizingly slow minutes later, they entered the final killing ground that was the first floor lobby.

The scene was straight out of a bad horror movie. Three bodies littered the place. The nearest was another knife victim, a slim throwing stiletto still buried in his throat. His companion was messier. Somehow the Kevlar-reinforced fiberglass/steel helmet had been split wide open. Brain oozed out of that ragged gash. Next to the dead man was an M-16. Or rather, two pieces of what had been an M-16, chopped cleanly in half.

"My God," someone groaned.

Turning to chastise the offender, Forelli choked on a gasp himself.

Milo D'Agosta splayed against a rusting wall. The big man was shorter by a head, which was set upon his chest, held in place by lifeless hands. Both eyes were open, his pupils dilated. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream.

Forelli could see it all now. The killer initially chose to pick off his targets one by one. Once First Squad wised up to him, he abruptly switched tactics. Attacked head-on. Won. 'Arranged' D'Agosta's body. Disappeared– or hid.

Had been waiting ever since.

This massacre was the work of a single man. Not a single gunshot wound on the bodies indicated a preference for bladed weapons. Knives and swords. That a single person armed with such archaic weaponry decimated an entire five-man fire team, even given superior tactics and home terrain, spoke volumes. The M-16 sliced in half pointed to yet another terrible possibility, one Forelli refused to consider until he'd seen it with his own eyes. And he didn't plan to stay long enough to do so.

Simply put, Second Squad was out of their league. Looking at his men, Forelli realized his fatal mistake. He'd brought his team this far only for them to die.

"Team, pull out. Now!"

It was too little, too late.

**  
**The boy waited until the enemy began to retreat. Strapped to his right arm was a six-shot needle launcher device. The darts were half as long as a pencil and much thinner, their black length laced with a fast-acting muscle-stopping poison. Its range topped out at six meters, was good for only one shot. But the launcher offered many advantages: a stealthy, easy to conceal ranged weapon that didn't give out telltale flashes or noise when firing; relatively good accuracy; was near impossible to jam; and could engage several dispersed targets simultaneously. He saved it for this specific occasion.

First up: a barrage out of the blue. Then he'd rush the shocked survivors. Not especially elegant, but in the ever-fluid battlefield forward simplicity was often best. This was no honorable tourney between pennant-bearing knights, but a down-and-dirty brawl where anything went and the only condition was to win.

His blade was out now. He placed his forearm perpendicular to the enemy squad's position, taking care to make sure that at least two commandos were in his line of fire. Slowly, silently, he pulled back on the device's twine 'trigger'. A slight aiming correction at the last moment, and then he released.

Half a dozen needles silently sliced through the air– and through three commandos.

Two died almost instantly, the first's heart stopped by a poisoned needle.

_**One.**_

A second followed closely, his right lung pierced, his yelp of alarm tapering off abruptly as he stopped breathing.

_**Two.**_

The last dart only grazed the right arm of the third commando, the team leader. He dropped to his knees with a grunt. So did his M-16A2. Bullets ricocheted off concrete.

**_Not quite 'three'. It'll do. Save him for last._**

The remaining two commandos vainly sought out their attacker. One saw something moving in the dark. An MP-5 SD2 opened up, the muzzle flash blinding, the gunfire itself much subdued.

He quickly closed the distance. Crouched low into a loping run to present a minimal target profile, he made less noise than the silenced gun aimed his way. Bullets whizzed over his head, missed again and again.

The Nepalese _kukri_ was one of the best, most effective and feared melee weapons ever made. His customized blade was twenty inches in length and weighed almost four pounds, much larger than usual. Despite its size, it could be perfectly balanced on a finger. Like his darts and stilettos, the _kukri_'s blade was anodized black for night action, its killing edge the only shiny betrayal of its presence. That was what the commando saw: a thin silver hook borne by a living shadow, the deadly gleam sweeping upwards.

The heavy knife cleanly gutted him open from the groin and up across the belly, biting deep into the right side of his rib cage, and then exiting his body. The man screamed.

Without breaking a sweat, the boy arrested his upwards slash, twisted his wrist to reverse his grip and brought the _kukri_ down.

_**Three.**_

Almost simultaneously his left hand snapped out. The farther commando toppled backwards, finger still holding down the trigger of his gun, the black-bladed stiletto making itself quite at home in an eye.

_**And four.**_

Four men in just a little over ten seconds. Even his _sensei_ had to approve of that.

One enemy left. The squad leader, the one he'd disabled earlier.

He tugged his _kukri_ free of its grisly chopping block. Turned to stare down a pistol barrel.

**  
**Inwardly Forelli cursed. The lopsided battle took all of maybe fifteen seconds.

His right arm was numb, useless. His team was gone, his troopers all dead. And their killer, a boy of thirteen or fourteen, approached with grim intent.

But he still had his left hand– and an M9 Beretta.

The ex-Carabinieri resisted the impulse to fire wildly. Instead he deliberately took time to bracket the approaching monster in his sights.

No helmet. No flak jacket. No armor. He wore somewhat ordinary black clothes, a sweater with loosely long sleeves and matching pants, nothing fancy. No wonder he moved so fast. Nothing to weigh him down. But that meant he couldn't take hits. Not at this range. Not with a leftie expert pistol shot.

Forelli fired.

The boy didn't make any move to dodge. Instead, his left arm blurred–

_What the fuck,_ thought the commando, still firing…

–the blocking arm jerked and rung with every hit. He didn't bleed. Didn't scream. Only kept walking forward.

The Beretta clicked on empty. It slipped from nerveless fingers, clattered loudly upon the floor, as its owner stared.

The boy ripped off his tattered left sleeve to reveal a dented ceramic forearm guard. Not one shot had gotten through that protective aegis.

_He caught all my shots…_

"You're a mechanical body!"

Relentless, an unstoppable juggernaut, the boy moved into the shaft of light. The _kukri_ came up.

Forelli exhaled upon seeing the youthful face of his executioner.

**  
**_Giuseppe…_

**  
**"Mission complete."

"Excellent. Proceed to the pre-assigned exit point."

"Roger."

The video feed ended.

The conference host could have been mistaken for a girl, what with his flowing silver hair and soft features. But the eyes regarding his diverse collection of guests were intelligent and pragmatic. "Well?"

"Impressive." The Russian was definitely awed. "Very impressive."

"Indeed," agreed his Frenchman seatmate.

"That he was outnumbered ten to one," noted one of three Arabs present, "And used bladed weapons instead of guns, but still won…"

"How many of them do you have?" the single American, and lone woman, of the group asked.

"Currently we have a single operational unit. The prototype, if you will. You have just witnessed him in action. We are slowly bringing a second trial unit online. Afterwards, we can go into limited mass production based on order placements."

"One thing." The lone Brit looked thoughtful. "This exercise of yours was staged against Section One, right? Don't they have their own mechanical bodies?"

"Section Two is the cyborg division, not Section One. And their units are inferior to ours. After all," the handsome young man pointed out with a menacingly winsome smile, flanked as he was by two hulking figures too big to be human, "They're not Black Technology. None of them are Whispered."

**  
**The boy remained quiet throughout the trip home. That struck his driver as troublesome.

"Problems?"

"That last man I killed. _Sensei_, he called me by name."

"Do you recognize him?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm using the special conditioning. Remember?"

"You are. I remember."

His chauffeur was also his _sensei_, his master and mentor. Also a Whispered, whatever that meant. And his best friend, the only one he had in Amalgam.

"If he knows you, but you don't recognize him… Hmmm. Only explanation I can think of is that you reminded him of someone he knew."

"Or maybe I've forgotten."

"Don't belittle yourself so. You've a better memory than me. By the way," the man added, "Elena-_chan_ sent you a message over SMS." He returned the boy's cell phone.

"Thank you, Darren-_sensei_."

"You're welcome."

In need of a pleasant distraction for the both of them, the man played one of his favorite CDs. The song was Japanese with a sprinkling of accented English in the refrain. The boy didn't understand much of it, not having done very well in his Japanese language classes. He didn't mind. He found the gibberish soothing, preferred its innocent twaddle to the rational cruelty of the world and of people. He read his sister's message.

**  
_Hi, big brother. I hope you're okay. They told me you were working again. Don't tire yourself too much, and be careful, okay? Me, well, I'm okay here. The doctors say I'm doing great. Pretty soon, I can go with you wherever you go, too. I can't wait!_**

_**Love you. Elena. ♥**_

**  
**Giuseppe smiled. He started working on a reply.

**  
**_Life Goes On moeagaru_

_Inochi ga aru kagiri_

_Shinjitsu no jibun sae miushinaisou soredemo_

_Life Goes On mamoritakute_

_Kokoro wa kudakarete_

_Hontou no kanashimi wo shitta hitomi wa_

_Ai ni afurete_

**  
**_Life Goes On passionately._

_As long as I am alive_

_Even if I were to lose sight of my real self,_

_Life Goes On; I want to protect it._

_My heart was broken,_

_And in those eyes that have seen true sorrow,_

_Love overflows…_

**  
**Over tea and biscuits, hoeing soil and planting seeds, certain souls slowly draw closer and closer into conflict– or resolution. Next on _Life Goes On_: **_Bivio _(Crossroad)**


	8. Bivio

"_Henrietta? Would you like to have tea with me?"_

"_Yes! I mean, yes, Miss Mireille. I would love to."_

_Before they left, Mireille glanced at her ward's abandoned draft. Her smile saddened._

_A handsome man stared at the sunset from the balcony of his seaside villa. His smile was kind._

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and _Metal Slug_ are not mine. Giuseppe (the cyborg, not the late handler) is my creation.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, and somewhere in the _Full Metal Panic TSR_ timeline.

**  
Inspiration: **Inspired by and incorporates elements from Nachtsider's various _Gunslinger Girl_ fan fiction and Deathra's_ Daddy's Girl_. The _Noir_ element is courtesy _Sho Tsuzuku_ (also responsible for the _FMP _part) and propelled by _Soldat #75664_ and _Barbie_'s interest.

**  
Eight**

_**Bivio**_

**(Crossroads)**

Oriental. Exquisitely alien. Delicious. The six sugar cubes overpowered it, but not too badly. For the life of her, she wondered if her taste buds were really that far gone, calling for so much sugar.

She closed her eyes, the better to heighten the sensory experience. Let the liquid cool upon her palate. Swirled it a little with her tongue. Breathed in the aroma wafting from her cup. Took it all in.

"Well, 'Etta? What do you think?"

"It's wonderful. I've never tasted anything like it before."

"It's a special Chinese tea, one of my favorites. A friend of mine introduced me to it."

"Your friend and you have very good taste, Miss Mireille."

"Thanks, 'Etta." _You too, Kirika._ "And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille."

Tiramisu accompanied the tea. Mireille watched her ward daintily wash down a slice with a second cup. "You have excellent poise there, 'Etta."_ Giuseppe taught you well._

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. I myself was more of a coffee person. A couple years ago, though, my friend got me hooked on tea. Nowadays I can't do without a cup or two."

Henrietta giggled.

"'Etta?"

"Yes?"

"Before I entered your room, you were sketching, right?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask– if you don't mind, that is? Who was that man in your sketch?"

"Huh?"

For a moment, Mireille worried.

Henrietta looked sheepish.

"Oh, _him_. He's nobody in particular, Miss Mireille. No one important, I'm sure."

She wondered why her handler looked hurt.

* * *

**  
**"Jean? Can we talk? It's important."

"Take a seat."

"Thank you." Noticing the absence of her host's blond shadow, Mireille paused. "Where's Rico?"

"She's practicing her technique at the firing range."

That came as no surprise. Jean's strictness with his _Fratello_ was common knowledge. The only man harsher than him was dead a year ago.

"She requested it."

"Excuse me?"

The blonde man's eyes remained on his paperwork. His tone, however, was a bit defensive. "If you are thinking I put her through it as punishment, you're wrong. No one was at fault. Rico voluntarily took extra practice upon herself this morning."

"I didn't say anything…"

"But you were thinking it. Were you not? Of course you disapprove. My reputation with how I treat my mechanical body is rather unpleasant."

"Jean. You know me better than that."

Almost as if waking from a dream, Jean looked up. Exhaustion, both physical and mental, showed in his eyes.

"Excuse my remarks, Mireille. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just tired. The latest developments from our joint operation against Padania…"

"No offense taken. By the way, would you know why Rico went to train by herself?"

Jean frowned. "No. I don't."

* * *

**  
**Rico put bullet after 7.62mm bullet through a ragged inch-wide hole in the head of the human-shaped target silhouette eight hundred yards away. Her technique was methodical, her movements mechanical, her lethality frightening. The Dragunov was no longer a weapon, but an extension of her physical self. Whatever she saw and wished to touch, the gun reached out to it for her.

**Boom.**

Headshot.

**Boom.**

Again.

**Boom. Boom. Boom.**

_As many times as I want._

**Click.**

She reloaded.

"Excellent technique, Rico." Liesel had also been training all morning. She considered herself an excellent shot, believed her DSR-1 sniper rifle the best weapon of its class in the world. But today her best and that of AMP paled in comparison to her sister-in-arms and a Russian-built 'designated marksman' rifle about as old as either of them. "What's your secret?"

"Inspiration. The right kind."

It was so easy. She only needed to visualize Kathryn's face. Superimpose the Israeli woman's image upon the silhouette's head. Take careful aim. Pull the trigger.

**Boom.**

_And you're dead,_ Rico coldly told her rival in love

* * *

**  
**"Achoo!"

"Bless you, Kathryn."

"Someone must be thinking about me."

* * *

**  
**"Anyway, what is it you wanted to talk about? It isn't Rico, now, is it?"

"No. Jean. I need a favor from you."

His head dipped slightly.

"A bigfavor."

An eyebrow lifted several millimeters. "Define 'big'."

"Very."

Jean became guarded. "Is it about Henrietta?"

"Not just 'Etta. It involves all the girls and their handlers. The conditioning. The entire mechanical body program. Perhaps the whole of Section Two. The only thing I can assure you is that we will all be affected immensely."

For the longest while, he hesitated. She noticed his right hand shift certain papers out of her sight. Automatically she wondered what lay hidden in those documents. Questions? Answers? Or just nothing? At what price, knowledge?

Not for the first time, Mireille found herself in the middle of a dark conspiracy that just might get her killed.

"What exactly do you want?" Jean asked.

She told him.

* * *

**  
**She stared at her draft, at the man upon the balcony. Tried to put a name to that handsome face. Sought out the reason for his happy smile. Wracked her brains for anything to explain why her handler was so perturbed by a mere sketch, by a man who didn't exist.

It was there, at the tip of her tongue, within reach. But she couldn't identify it. She didn't know why.

"Henrietta?"

The girl from the hotel mission stood in the doorway. Claes. The scene struck her as déjà vu.

"Are you free? If you want, you can come–"

"Help you in your garden?" Henrietta caught herself. _Huh?_

Claes' responding smile was eerie.

"Exactly."

* * *

**  
**_"Hello? This is the Bouquet residence."_

"Hey, Kirika. It's me."

"_Mireille! How are you?"_

"Great. You?"

"_I'm okay."_

**  
**She imagined the girl on the other side of the line. The small slip of a waif, Japanese, a short crop of dark hair contrasting sharply with hauntingly deep red eyes that saw through darkest night and people's masks. Oh, and probably wearing one of her gift sundresses from years back. Kirika possessed zero taste in a lot of civilian luxuries, i.e. fashionable clothing. Dressing her up became one of Mireille's hobbies.

**  
**"So what's your latest plan for this month? Take over the Louvre? Upstage Michelangelo?"

"_Not really. I'm just finishing my latest commissions. I'm taking a short break afterwards."_

"Tired already?"

"_No. I'm trying something new."_

"Tell me about it."

"_It's hard to explain… I'm really not sure how to put it…"_

"I'm listening…"

Kirika tried so hard to explain. Sort of succeeded. Details were still vague. Then: _"Mireille? When are you coming back here?"_

"Not for a long while. My job's sucked me in deep. It's not easy to let go. And I don't think they'll release me anytime soon."

"_Are they holding you against your will?"_

**  
**The statement hinted protective, possessive menace, terrifying but also sort of adorable. In that and many other things, Kirika and Henrietta were so alike.

Mireille laughed, both to defuse her friend's rather rash offer and to figuratively shake her head at the absurd coincidences life kept springing on her.

**  
**"Kirika! Stop being so scary. There's no trouble at all. My boss and my coworkers are very nice people. I can take care of myself perfectly well, you know."

**  
**She didn't tell her about taking up the gun once more. Nor did she say anything about her new bosses or the eleven year old killing machine who was her new partner. As far as Kirika knew, Mireille was a noncombatant adviser to a secret European counter-terrorist force based in Italy, far from actual danger. That much, she was allowed to say.

Partners were supposed to trust each other. Lovers didn't need lies.

But people always want to protect the ones they love.

**  
**"I miss you, you know. Kirika."

"_I miss you, too, Mireille."_

**  
**She wanted to go back to the old days. To the bad days, even. Their days as Noir. Living on the edge and on nerves. Fighting back-to-back against Soldats and the world, against all odds– and winning. Guns held tight while sharing a bed for the night, not quite trusting each other even as mutual admiration and attraction slowly blossomed.

Mireille wanted to be with Kirika again.

**  
**_"I have to go. There's someone I need to meet with."_

"Is he a new customer?"

"_No. It's… an old friend of sorts… complicated…"_

"That sounds like _my_ excuse for _my_ job."

"_Gomen, Mireille. I might be gone for awhile…"_

"No problem. I've got stuff on my side for the next couple of days, too."

"_I really want to talk to you more."_

"Me, too. Maybe another time."

"_Maybe…"_

**  
**Yet however much they tried, they only grew further apart.

**  
**_"Goodbye, Mireille. Take care."_

"You too, Kirika. And good luck."

"_Thank you."_

**  
**A simple thing bothered Mireille as she hung up. Kirika didn't correct her tease about her date's gender.

**

* * *

"Yuumura? Are you ready?"**

She armed her M1934 Beretta, replaced it in a hip holster hidden by her sundress' skirt. She turned to face the tanned youth, her visitor and fellow Japanese, a cross-shaped scar decorating the left side of his face, a veritable arsenal hiding in his civilian clothes. The boy she had been supposed to kill years ago at that airport. Should have killed if not for– but what?

Yuumura Kirika wished she knew why.

**  
**"Yes, Sagara-_san_. I'm ready."

* * *

**  
**Bystanders would have found them cute. Those in the know would shudder at the coming disaster in the works.

Claes shouldered a hoe. Henrietta lugged a bucket of gardening implements. Their going was slow and steady, their pace dictated by the self-appointed leader of the excursion.

The garden was a small plot fenced by red bricks. Here were assorted vegetables arranged neatly in line, leafy green cabbages and juicy tomatoes, eggplants the color of Claes' hair. Their owner smiled. "Hello there."

"Uh, Claes? Are you talking to the plants?"

"What of it?"

"No, no problem. I was just curious…"

"So I was talking to them. Is there a problem with that?"

Henrietta blushed.

"Good. Let's start here, shall we?" She gestured.

Time flew. So did their hands. They were busy little bees, breaking up the soil, pulling up weeds, watering crops and harvesting. Tiring but relaxing.

"A little patch of Eden," Claes mused to herself.

By now Henrietta knew better than to comment. Instead, she listened. Claes was not just a good gardener, but a teacher who taught through example, instructing with hands and actions as much as words. Her practiced eye always caught the slightest thing amiss. And she always knew what to do with it.

"Here." She tossed the laboring Henrietta a ripe tomato. "Try it."

"Is it okay?"

"It's best eaten when it's fresh."

The juicy red succulent did wonders in quenching both hunger and thirst. And it was as delicious as assured. Despite the heat and sweat, Henrietta found herself smiling.

"You know everything about gardening, don't you, Claes?"

Slowly Claes rose from the eggplants. Her glasses came off. Blue eyes smoldered.

"Happy little girl. You really don't know anything. Do you? _Henrietta_?"

She didn't know how to explain herself. She barely managed the courage to apologize, had her regrets thrown back into her face.

"Sorry isn't enough. Not after what they've done to you. You should be angry at what happened to you. You lost everything. _Everything._ Yourself. Your memories. Your most important person– your _handler_. But all you do is smile and suck it all in like you love it." Claes almost spat. "Well, I'm sick of it. Sick of your ignorance. Your pretend happiness. Sick of _you_."

"I don't understand. I really don't know what you mean."

"Then why don't you ask your beloved handler to tell you who you really are?"

The mention of Mireille steeled Henrietta. "Miss Mireille is my partner–"

"Your partner? Did she tell you that? How nice of her to tell her tool that."

"Stop it! I'm not a tool! I won't let you talk about Mireille like that!"

"Then _make_ me stop. Go and learn what the truth is, who you really are."

"Shut up! You're just jealous because you don't have a handler, never had–"

_Smack._

Henrietta crashed into the cabbages. She clutched at the red welt that was her right cheek, her tears flowing.

"Don't you ever, ever say _that_ to me ever again!" Claes was furious. "I had a handler. I have one!"

But all Henrietta heard was Mireille being badmouthed. That was everything that mattered. She saw red. The hoe was within reach. She grabbed for it, got up, murderous intent. Claes stood her ground.

"Claes! Henrietta!"

Both girls froze.

Triela glared. At her roommate. Her arms folded across her chest in a visible display of disapproval. "Just what do you think you're doing, hmm, Claes?"

The girl didn't relax. "We were working on my garden."

"Looks to me you were working up Henrietta's temper. For God's sake, you can be so obtuse, you know that?"

"What I do is none of your business."

"Wrong. It's my business to keep you from screwing up. And in my learned opinion, you were in for a really big screw up. Really unlike the level-headed girl I roomed with for the last couple of years, as I recall. Have you got no shame?"

Somehow Henrietta felt left out.

Slowly, reluctantly, Claes put her glasses back on.

"Sorry, Henrietta. You, too, Triela."

"You're forgiven. Go and sin no more. Oh, and a group hug is also called for," Triela added mischievously.

"Excuse me." Pointedly avoiding either girl's gaze, Claes left.

Triela snickered. "You okay?" she asked Henrietta, the latter still defensively clutching the hoe.

"I'm all right. Thank you."

"No problem. Any time you've got any kind of trouble, tell me. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good girl. Don't mind Claes too much. She's a nice person overall, but she can get real moody sometimes. She's never done something this stupid before, though. I wonder if her period is on. Oh, wait. She doesn't have one. At least, I think she doesn't. Come to think of it, I never really noticed…"

"Um? Triela?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for getting angry at you when we first met."

"Huh? Oh. That. Don't worry. It's a perfectly natural reaction. You felt your handler was threatened, so you acted to protect her. All of us mechanical bodies are conditioned to do the same for our handlers. Even as much as I dislike _my_ handler, I'm still willing to die for him. In fact, I'd be worried if you didn't care for your handler. You do, right?"

"Yes." Her heart thumped happily. "Yes, I do."

"Well, to be honest, the other girls and handlers dislike Miss Bouquet. 'Cept maybe Angie– Angelica. I admit I don't like Mireille, either. Not through any fault of hers, of course."

"Why?"

"Huh? What do you mean, 'Why'?"

"Why does everyone dislike Mireille? What is it I don't know?"

Triela almost bit her tongue._ Me and my big mouth. Jean will have my hide for this. And Hirscher… Hirscher's going to eat me alive like with those terrorists... I'm so dead…_

"Claes kept calling me a silly little girl. Told me I should be angry at what happened to me. Told me I had lost everything. Said I lost my handler. But I don't remember anything like that." The bowed head lifted up in defiance. "I don't feel any need to be angry. And I still have my handler, my most important person. Mireille is still with me. I'm happy."

_At least, I think I am. I don't know for sure anymore._

"It's that bad, huh?" Privately Triela made a note to hand Claes a royal ass-kicking in their next unarmed sparring session. She had a bad feeling as to what the dark-haired girl was up to. "Well," she began, carefully watching her words, "If you ask me, it's best to ask your handler– Mireille herself."

"I did. Mireille promised she would tell me someday. When I was ready for it, she said."

"She's smart– for an adult. Mind, my handler's a dunce. Hirscher's dense as a cannonball. And just as endearing."

Henrietta laughed. Triela joined in.

Despite everything, life still felt good.

* * *

**  
**Violet-blue eyes didn't bother with the knocking on her door, focused on her latest pet novel. But she was aware of the intrusion in her small world.

"Yes?"

"Claes? It's Mireille. Henrietta's handler. Can I come in?"

Briefly she entertained a temptation to reject that request. She was not in a good mood. She was so close. Confrontational psychology worked. Just like all her books said. Henrietta was right where she wanted her, at her most psychologically and emotionally vulnerable.

Then, at the worst possible moment, Claes lost her legendary cool at an inconsequential comment. In doing so, she inadvertently revealed her one weakness, a secret whose revelation would assure her damnation and death. Before she could recover, before she could regain control, Triela appeared to drive her off. And the interruption was a good thing, World War III about to break out in her garden with the very girl she was trying to help.

In her eyes, the mission was a complete disaster.

Claes hated backing down. She hated failure even more. She would be the last to admit it, but she was a proud girl.

But one of Raballo's most important lessons was about professionalism. And despite her personal animosity to the nonentity awaiting audience, she was a good student, a good soldier and –most important– a good girl.

"It's not locked. Come in."

The door opened. Her gaze remained riveted upon the latest sensual pleasure from Harlequin Mills & Boons.

"Claes? Are you busy?"

"No." _Obviously_. "What is it?"

"Henrietta and I are going on a trip. You're coming along."

She considered her short list of options. Allowed some prejudice in her reply, just as a goad to see how far she could go with this woman.

"I'm not interested."

"It's a mission."

Stocking-clad feet stopped moving. The novel came down. Claes graduated Mireille Bouquet from obstinate complication to interesting opponent.

"In that case, I have no choice but to go with you."

"Pack light. We won't be out for long; just three or four days at the most. Oh, and take your handgun with you just in case. No heavy weapons, though."

"It's not a combat mission?"

"No. An investigation is more like it." She would have said 'experiment', decided the word was too cold and impersonal. "I'm not expecting any kind of trouble, but I prefer being prepared. If everything goes well, we can even relax a little."

"I see." Then: "If everything goes well?"

Mireille didn't answer. Claes' eyes narrowed.

"May I ask where our destination is?"

"Sicily."

**  
**A gun. A revelation. Acceptance. And one thing more: "Love me– or else." Next on _Life Goes On: _**Sicily**.


	9. Sicily

_They say a camera can capture a person's soul. They say a sheet of photographic paper can hold the ghosts of the past._

_Superstition is what the ignorant call their ignorance._

_But life could be stranger than fiction._

**  
Gunslinger Girl**

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and _Metal Slug_ are not mine. Giuseppe (the cyborg, not the late handler) is my creation.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, and somewhere in the _Full Metal Panic TSR_ timeline.

**  
Important Author's Note: **This is an edited version of Chapter Nine, with all references to the original Chapter 10, **_Amore_** **(Love)**. For further explanation, see below.

**  
Nine**

_**Sicily**_

**  
**Pietro Fermi stifled a yawn. Five A.M, only four hours of sleep logged, his Fiat topped fifty miles on the seaside road. Coffee helped keep him awake. Twitching hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the neck of the senior Section Two agent responsible for this merry little jaunt so early in the goddamned morning.

_Jean, you bastard, you owe me big time for this…_

"Keep your eyes on the road, dear."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And stop killing the wheel."

"Yes, Ma'am."

The former Elenora Gabrielli smiled at her grumpy husband. A hand protectively held her slightly bulging tummy. Two months pregnant, her firstborn was a girl. She and Fermi were already decided on their baby's name.

"It's not like I'm still some lowly lieutenant with time to burn," grumbled her husband. "I'm the chief of an entire counterterrorist department now. I've got far bigger fish to fry."

"Uneasy lays the head beneath the crown."

"Damn right. There's tons of paperwork to be done. We haven't even begun to put a dent on that mechanical body terrorist case. I have to keep a close watch on that one."

"You have subordinates to pass the work down on."

"Irresponsibility and laziness, like how Draghi bought it." _Thanks a lot for that, too, Jean. Speed up my promotion, eh? Get rid of a spy, huh?_

"Leader's prerogative, I think. Besides, today is a day off."

He snorted. "_Au contraire, Madame _Fermi. Today is a _working_ day. It may not appear as such to you, but believe me when I say I'll be working my ass off today. To top it off, this is a Section _Two_ issue. I'm Section _One_. The _Chief_ of Section One. I shouldn't be doing this. I certainly _wouldn't_ be doing this, even if Jean had personally asked me to."

And Jean himself did personally ask it. The blonde man looked somewhat grim, almost desperate. It was somewhat frightening.

_What the hell was that all about?_

"But for Henrietta?"

"Call me a softie," Fermi finally allowed.

"That's what I love about you, dear. You're like a grizzled teddy bear."

"Hah! Maybe I ought to put myself up for Triela's adoption, then."

"Hilshire might get jealous. Besides, you aren't cute enough."

"Says you. What's the schedule?"

Out came her magic notebook. Elenora flipped through the bookmarked pages. "There's a ferry for Sicily due to depart in an hour."

"Consider us there."

**  
**Henrietta basked in the day's warmth. Her sandals clicked upon pavement even as her sundress swirled around and alongside her. The distant rumble of the surf, the cries of seabirds and the cool sea breeze welcomed her.

An hour and a half to the port, six more riding the ferry and not fifteen minutes since her feet stood once more on solid ground. She could barely help it. The need to release the sudden, throbbing ecstasy locked within her was so great, her heart raring to soar into the clear blue sky. Instead she held herself in place, placing her hands upon her breast in an effort to quiet its mad thumping, allowing only her shining eyes to show her bubbling excitement.

_I'm home._

Nearby, Mireille studied both a map and her delighted ward. She wore her usual sleeveless red blouse and black skirt alongside an approving smile. A pair of dark glasses protected her eyes and anonymity. In the duffel bag were the Walther and extra ammo, a fresh change of clothes, toiletries and several very important items.

'_Etta seems to be enjoying herself. That's good._

A sideward glance at her other companion reminded her of the unknowns they would face today.

It was Claes' first time away from the base on anything other than a mission. She had not thought vacations could be such a hassle. She knew better now.

Last night was sheer torture. Her mistake was in asking Triela for help. Luckily their only witnesses were the latter's collection of teddy bears, and those wouldn't talk even without 'persuasion'. Their blonde owner, however, was another problem. Triela spent the whole night trying all manner of excessively cute dresses on her stoic roommate– only to laugh her head off at each and every result. How she came to possess so much frill and lace was beyond– but wait, Hilshire was probably to blame. Maybe Priscilla as well, considering the badly disguised disappointment on the intelligence expert's face the next morning.

Having tired of playing the local laughingstock, Claes finally opted for a short-sleeved dark blue vest over a white polo blouse, a pleated skirt and girl's sneakers. Her choice of clothing was simultaneously simple, aesthetically pleasant and allowed her maximum freedom of movement. Decorating her hair was a clip with a colorful flower design, one of two concessions to Triela's loud opinions for something _cuter_. The other was a generous dosage of perfume– Pupa, was it? Henrietta's personal brand, a left over from Giuseppe–, the concentrate gagging Claes better than tear gas.

_Note to self: the next time Hilshire asks for help in dressing _Triela_ up, say "Yes"._

_And the three of us can probably take on the whole Sicilian mafia,_ Mireille wryly thought, watching the frolicking Henrietta and reticent Claes. But they were here for more important things. Putting away her map, she flagged down a taxi.

**  
**"What is this place?" the mystified Henrietta asked.

"It's Jean's house." _Giuseppe's, too. You don't recognize it? But that can wait a while._ Mireille unlocked the door. "Come in."

The villa hadn't been lived in for a while. Not since Giuseppe's death. His workaholic brother saw no use for it. But the house's neatness pointed to a fastidious caretaker retained by Jean for the express purpose of taking care of his family property. Not a speck of dust was to be found. Everything was in order.

"Like a ghost house," Claes murmured to herself.

_Ghosts of the past,_ Mireille silently agreed. _The very same ghosts we'll be invoking tonight._

A flight of stairs beckoned. Mastering her slight apprehension, Mireille climbed up them, pushed the swinging doors open.

A magnificent view of the Mediterranean greeted her. Here was the balcony from Henrietta's sketches. Here once stood and lived a man named Giuseppe.

"Scenic."

Mireille started. Claes had followed her up without making a sound.

_I didn't hear her at all. She's good. Maybe as good as Kirika, even._

Henrietta bit her lip. Right behind Claes, she remembered the latter girl's harsh judgment of her handler just yesterday. _I won't let her hurt Mireille._

A sudden swell of apprehension hit Mireille. Watching the two girls' tense interaction reminded her a little of herself and Kirika back in the bad days. She suppressed a shudder, forced a smile. "Here. Take a look, 'Etta."

Henrietta reluctantly took her eyes off her pet peeve. The seaside promptly enthralled her. "It's beautiful."

"It is." _Is it familiar?_

"I think I've seen this before…"

"Of course. You painted it." _Good. Then our trip here wasn't wasted. The hard part begins soon…_

"I did?"

Staring at the sea, listening to the lapping waves and squealing seabirds, Henrietta stirred. On an unknown impulse, she took out her Kahr, flicked the safety on and proffered it to her puzzled handler.

"'Etta?"

"You don't want the house to smell of guns, right?"

"Oh. You're right." Mireille pocketed the Kahr in her bag. "Jean would be angry at us."

"Not you?"

"It's not _my_ house."

She then stared at the VP-70M also held out for her taking. Claes smiled slyly. "When in Rome," the dark-haired girl began.

Mireille almost groaned. _I'm being outmaneuvered here…_

**  
**Later that afternoon...

"Knock, knock," Fermi cheerfully whistled as he rung the buzzer.

"Stand straighter, dear."

"Yes, ma'am." His slouch straightened a little.

The door opened partway. A familiar brown-haired girl stared at him.

Despite knowing better, Jean having warned him earlier on what to expect, Fermi grinned. Just like the first time from years ago. Déjà vu all over again, it was.

_Now, let's see if I can keep myself from getting shot…_

**  
**Henrietta tensed. She didn't recognize the stranger, didn't like his knowing smile. Her right hand automatically went for her Kahr. Found nothing. She remembered giving it to Mireille. Lacking a handy weapon, she floundered on her next move.

"Hey, there, Henrietta," cheerily announced the man. "Long time, no see."

She blinked. _This man knows my name?_

"I'm Pietro Fermi. Remember me? I'm also with the Social Welfare Agency. I'm now the Chief of Section One. Elenora here," he gestured grandly to his companion, "is my wife and partner. Jean told me we could find you here. Can I talk to your handler? We're expected."

Somehow she managed not to reel from all the words dumped on her. _Remember you? But I don't know you._

"Henrietta?" Mireille was preparing an early dinner in the kitchen. "What is it?"

The girl recovered. "Visitors, Miss Mireille. It's a man named Fermi. He says he's the Chief of the Agency's Section One."

"Ah! Let him in, 'Etta. We're expecting him."

"He has someone else with him. His wife, he says."

"Her, too." For the two Section One agents: "Come in!"

Distrusting, Henrietta stepped aside.

Fermi allowed himself a little fear. _She's completely forgotten who I am. She was willing to attack me if I made one wrong move. Just what did they do to you, Henrietta?_ He remembered when he first met Rico, how he had come close to getting shot. _What the hell have I gotten myself into again?_

_Damn it all, Jean!_

He stared at the small palm proffered before him. "Huh?"

"Give me your guns." Henrietta looked very serious. "I'll put them away. Mireille doesn't want the house to smell of guns."

"Oh." Then: "_Oh._ Okay." Fermi handed over his service pistol. No dirty jokes this time. "Mind if we sit down?"

His guard's slight scowl told them she did.

Unmindful of Henrietta's hostility, Elenora sat herself comfortably, remaining perfectly placid.

Then and there, Fermi knew his wife to be the bravest woman alive. He didn't follow her example, though.

From the kitchen: "Hold the fort, Claes."

"Understood, Mireille," a girl's voice replied.

Fermi blinked. _She brought a _**second**_ mechanical body? Henrietta's bad enough on her own. What does this woman need a second one for? World War Three?_

Mireille finally emerged from the kitchen. She didn't bother untying her apron. "I'm Mireille Bouquet. Sorry for making you wait, Chief. We were making dinner."

"No problem." _So this is the famous Mireille Bouquet that Jean's been talking about._

Fermi's detective-trained senses quickly took in his host's salient features. Tall, limber, athletic. A striking face, both attractive and memorable. Wheat blond hair. Intelligent emerald eyes. Nice long legs. And a damn fine chest. Definitely bigger than Elenora's. C cup, maybe?

His wife cleared her throat disapprovingly. When he showed no signs of noticing her displeasure, Elenora pinched him.

"Ow! Elenora!"

"Humph. You men are all the same…"

Mireille chuckled. "I get that a lot."

_Smart. Brains to her looks and body. In control of herself and her situation– or is she? Why did she call us here? What does she want from me? What's she up to?_

He caught Henrietta's displeased expression. So did Mireille.

"Henrietta! Be nice to our guests."

"Yes, Miss Mireille…"

"And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille." Again Henrietta unconsciously put on her 'kicked puppy' impression. Her handler switched from scolding to damage control.

"Now, now, 'Etta, don't go looking like that…"

"I'm sorry…"

_A close and personal relationship_._ Jean told me she treated Henrietta as a partner. Does she really mean it? Does this woman sincerely care?_

After a little bit of fast-talking, Mireille finally got Henrietta to lighten up. Claes served glasses of iced tea. After a moment of wondering who their servitor was, Fermi recognized her. _Triela's roommate, the bookworm who didn't care for interviews._ _She seems to be a player here, too. What's she up to?_

"Sorry, Chief, Elenora," Mireille apologized. "'Etta's a rather sensitive girl."

"I know." _They're so alike, Giuseppe and this woman. _He put his lips to his glass. "So what do you need from me, Mireille?"

"Tell me about Elsa de Sica."

The drinks went untouched for a long time.

**  
**In the kitchen, Claes pushed her glasses up her nose.

_Perhaps you are not too bad, Mireille Bouquet. Not bad at all._

**  
**Night found them gathered in the nearby park. The same park, Fermi informed Mireille, where they learned the ugly truth of the Elsa Incident.

"They still haven't fixed that damned streetlight." He gestured at the offending fixture.

"Not much funding to go on," Elenora reminded him.

"Never enough," agreed Mireille.

"Isn't that the truth?"

The adults laughed.

Claes noted the stress in their voices. _They're worried. Frightened, even. They're trying to prepare themselves for tonight._

And then there was Mireille's secret 'request' earlier. On its own, it barely made sense. But Claes was a smart girl. She'd divined a lot on her own already. Her hypothesis actually chilled her– to the point that she tried to keep it out of her mind.

**  
**_ "Can you do it for me? No– for Henrietta?"_

"_A good soldier follows orders."_

"_I'm not asking you as a commander. I'm asking you as Henrietta's handler– and her friend."_

"_Yes. I will."_

**  
**_What are you up to, Mireille Bouquet? Why are you putting your life in my hands– more so in Henrietta's? Do you want to die?_

Whatever the case, Claes knew what to do. After all, she was a good soldier. Good soldiers took care of their commanders.

**  
**Henrietta felt like a momentous event loomed just over the horizon. The very air seemed charged. She experienced this kind of feeling only once before. When she first met–

About to say 'Mireille', she stopped short. Another word, a different name, hung on her lips. It would not come out however she tried to make it do so. _Why?_

They stopped in the middle of the park.

"Miss Mireille?"

"Here, Henrietta. This is yours."

The box was rather large and heavy. "A gift?" she asked.

"No. It's yours. Open it."

She did so. Seeing the contents, Elenora gasped.

It was a camera.

Slowly, incredible care evident in her movements, Henrietta withdrew it. The black contoured plastic felt familiar. She peered through the lens experimentally, but at once pulled her face back, stung by a thought, an insight.

_I know this camera… It's mine..._

"This, too, 'Etta. You took this picture." It was a photograph of two men talking in the shade of a corridor. She immediately recognized Jean. His companion was the mysterious man of her sketches.

"His name is Giuseppe," Mireille explained.

"Giuseppe…" _The name on my lips… Who is he?_

"He was your handler. That was his family's house we stayed in. He also gave you that camera. It's the same camera with which you took that picture."

Mireille looked– _guilty?_

_Why?_

"He was my handler? But aren't _you_ my handler?"

"I came after him." Bitterness marred the Corsican's beautiful face. "I _replaced_ him."

Henrietta caught her breath.

"Not two months ago, Giuseppe died in a car accident. He died protecting you. Jean got me to stand in his place. You don't know this, but he and Jean were brothers. They hardly look alike. But they are family."

_Family,_ both handler and mechanical body thought. _Something we both lost to murderers_, Mireille realized._ I managed to forgive mine. Can Henrietta ever do the same? Do they deserve forgiveness? Do _I?

"They also had a little sister. She looked up to Giuseppe, wanted to follow him into the Carabinieri. He loved her dearly."

"What– What happened to her?"

"She was killed in a terrorist attack by Padania. Giuseppe hated Padania ever since. He and Jean left the Carabinieri and joined the Social Welfare Agency to get their revenge."

Her chest tightened, her heart furiously pounding. Padania. Henrietta also hated them. Only now did she have any clue as to why.

"Several years ago, Giuseppe visited a hospital in Rome. There he found a young girl, the victim and only survivor of a vicious attack on her family. The girl, he learned, had been raped, mutilated and left for dead by the killers. Pitying her, Giuseppe chose her as his mechanical body partner."

Mireille fixed her eyes on her partner. "That girl is you. Henrietta."

**  
** "There's a problem with your theory," Fermi noted.

"You're thinking about the conditioning. That a mechanical body is conditioned to be loyal only to her handler." To Henrietta: "They tested a new kind of conditioning on you. It was meant to both erase your memories of Giuseppe and to reprogram you, allowing me to take his place as your handler.

"But it wasn't perfect. You remembered things. Little things, to be sure, and only unconsciously. Yet you remember. It shows in your paintings, your mannerisms and speech."

"She gave you her gun, didn't you?" Henrietta looked startled by Fermi's shrewd guess. Mireille was less so. "That also happened when I first met you. Elenora and I were investigating the Elsa Incident back then. We found you and Giuseppe at his house. Giuseppe said he didn't want guns around his house or you."

"That's why you wanted Pietro's gun earlier," expanded Elenora. "You recalled Giuseppe's instructions to you. Thought you didn't know why or how, you remembered."

It was almost too much. She didn't know what to do or say. All she could do was to hold the camera close to her. The feel of that item upon her breast both reassured and troubled her.

_I…_

Aside, Claes entertained her own doubts. _Things are going too fast. Henrietta can't handle all this information at once._

"There's one last thing." Mireille took out a pistol. Again Henrietta was dumbstruck. "This is yours, too. It was the first thing Giuseppe gave you."

It was a silver-and-black Sig Sauer P239 semiautomatic pistol. _Her_ P239.

"Take it," Mireille urged.

She reached for it so slowly. In her eyes it was the material manifestation of all the forgotten doubt and fear locked within the recesses of her failing memory, a worn treasure chest whose contents beckoned. Henrietta took it barrel first. Its weight surprised her. The gun's safety was off. A quick pull of its slide partway back revealed a round in its chamber.

"Claes loaded it with live bullets," was Mireille's spoken afterthought. The import of that line shook everyone. Claes' hackles rose. Fermi and Elenora already knew.

Henrietta didn't.

"Henrietta." Mireille showed no emotion whatsoever. "I want you to kill me."

**  
**Her heart nearly stopped beating. Her handler filled her vision.

"Why?"_ I don't understand_.

"I deceived you. I kept the truth of who you are from you. I took Giuseppe's place without complaint or protest."

"That's– that's not true…"

"It is. Everyone knew."

"I don't remember anything–" She caught herself. _Everyone knew._ That day she 'first' met the other mechanical bodies and handlers. Just yesterday at the garden. She remembered Triela's glare, Claes' harsh accusations.

**  
**_ "Silly little girl. You know nothing. Absolutely nothing."_

"_Then why don't you ask your beloved handler to tell you who you really are?"_

"_Well, to be honest, the other girls and handlers dislike Miss Bouquet... Not through any fault of hers, of course."_

"_Why does everyone dislike Miss Mireille? What is it I don't know?"_

**  
**And she remembered.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

The Corsican beauty didn't look away. "I told you that we are partners. Said partners trusted each other. I also promised to tell you the truth one day. I meant all of that. I always keep promises."_ Except for one,_ she thought.

"One more thing. Long ago, before I joined the Agency, before my days as a private investigator, I knew a woman. She was insane. She played with the lives of three women, used them as pawns in her mad plan. She caused the deaths of so many innocent people, cut short so many promising lives.

"How do I know? I know of her because I and a friend of mine– the friend I've told you about, Henrietta, the girl who was my old partner– were two of those women she used. I know of her because my friend and I stopped her. Not without cost, not without suffering, but we stopped her at last."

_Altena… Chloe…_

_Kirika._

"My friend and I promised ourselves that what happened to us would never happen again to anyone else. That even as we sought out new lives, we'd fight and die to stop our old lives from happening again." Her fists tightened inwards. "But when I look at myself in the mirror, who do I see but _that woman_? The way I've used you, taken advantage of your kindness and loyalty, standing in Giuseppe's place, it stinks of her."

Unable to meet Henrietta's gaze, or that of anyone else, Mireille shut her eyes. "I'm no better than Altena," she whispered hatefully. "No better…"

"No!"

The yelled denial stopped everyone in their tracks. Mireille's eyes snapped open.

Despairing did not begin to describe Henrietta. The girl was all worked up into tears. "That's not true! You're better than that evil woman, Mireille! Much better! You never used me. You never wanted to. But there was no way you couldn't. I'm no longer the girl I once was, more so a girl." Though a sad one, it was still a smiling face she bore. "I'm a _weapon_ now. I kill people. That is my only purpose."

"You're not a weapon–"

"Yes, I am. There's nothing you can do to change that. Denying it won't help. And I can't help it. I'm a mechanical body. A killing machine. A weapon."

"But you're still a ten year old girl." _Kirika was one, once upon a time. Even Kirika had been one._

"Maybe that's why you looked out for me. You went to all the trouble of hiding the truth from me, took that burden for yourself. Why did you do that? Because you believed you were protecting me. You wanted me to be _happy_. That tells me you care for me a lot. So don't tell me that everything between you and me was all a lie– because it isn't!

"To tell me the truth of my past, my identity– then giving me this gun and asking me to kill you…" It was not hatred that filled her words, but disappointment. Henrietta sobbed. "It's like you're telling me, 'Love me– or else'. Why? Why do you want me to do that? Is that what you really want? To push me away from you? Do you want me to disappear from your life?"

Her hands and tears and heart reached out to her stunned handler. "Because the truth is that I love you."

**  
**Mireille did not know what to do. The Henrietta before her was the total opposite of the one from her dream. Still, even confronted with that heartfelt confession of unconditional love, doubt gripped her. Sinister images of Chloe danced inside her head.

_If too much love can kill…_

_Altena!_

"The conditioning," she murmured desperately, "You're just saying that because of the conditioning…"

"Maybe it is. But I believe it is more _you_, Mireille." Brown eyes softened. "I care for you not just because of the conditioning, but also because of you. You are a good person. I knew it from the very beginning, when we first met, before you became my handler. You proved it again and again. You're like Giuseppe–"

"I'm not Giuseppe!" Mireille almost screamed. _Stop haunting me!_

"I know you aren't. You are Mireille Bouquet. See? I remembered your whole name. I know who you are. And I want you to stay as yourself. I don't want you to be Giuseppe. No one can be Giuseppe. Giuseppe is dead. But _you_ are here. You are alive. You are my handler now. There's no changing that if I wanted to. And I don't want to. I want you to stay with me. I care for you. So please, **_Mireille_,**" and the woman did look at her, "please don't push me away."

"You ask why I can't bring myself to kill you despite what you've told me. Why would I? Why would I hate you? How can I hate the person I care for, the person who is most important to me? How can I want to hurt someone who is so kind to me?"

Fermi stared. Elenora's gasp was unnecessary punctuation. They both recognized the danger in those words. And they could be on the moon for all they want, so helpless were they to prevent the coming disaster.

"The only person I can hate is _me_. I'm not worthy of all this, of _you_. I'm really sorry, Miss Mireille. I really am."

So saying, Henrietta put the P239's barrel to her wide-open right eye.

Everyone gasped.

**  
** "Henrietta!"

**  
**The night sky was beautiful. She remembered seeing it through the scope of a sniper rifle, then later through a telescope built for such a task. Or did she? Whatever, she watched the stars twinkle happily in the sky. Tracked the planets go on their merry way without having to shoot any of them. She could watch them forever.

She looked at the blonde woman sprawled upon her. Her gun lay out of reach. Henrietta remembered pulling the trigger. All she heard was a pop. No flash. No roar.

_Why am I still alive?_

"I lied about the bullets." Claes picked the P239 up. "They're real ones. Blanks don't weigh the same. But I tapped the powder out so they wouldn't fire." She fired the gun into the air. The resulting sound was rather like a loud clap or pop. _And thank you, Tom Clancy, for that bit of information._

In that moment, Mireille knew for certain that there was a merciful God standing watch over them that night. "I'm sorry for putting you through this. Henrietta."

"I know you are. Mireille."

Henrietta wept.

**  
**Mireille saw Fermi and Elenora off the next morning. Henrietta was still asleep. Claes was starting to fix breakfast.

"Thanks for your help, Chief."

"Just Fermi will do. Take care of Henrietta."

"I will."

"You're invited to my baby's baptism," announced Elenora.

"You're pregnant? Congratulations." A little bit of good news. "Boy or girl?"

"She's a girl."

"Any names so far?"

Fermi and Elenora fondly smiled at each other.

"Henrietta."

**  
** "Claes? Thanks a lot for what you did for Henrietta and me last night. You saved our lives back then, 'Etta's and mine."

"It's what any good soldier would do for her teammates. But you're welcome."

"Still, thanks." _I'd love to meet the man who trained you one day,_ emerald eyes wordlessly said.

_Maybe you still can, _dark blue eyes replied in like fashion. "Would you tell me why you helped Henrietta regain her memory?"

"I couldn't live with myself if I didn't." Mireille stared at her cup's contents. "For a very long time, I lived a life of lies. But with a lot of help from my friend, I broke out of it. You see, the truth hurts, but in the end, after the tests and tribulations, it will lead you to the light. It's definitely better than living in the dark."

"I understand. I apologize for any ill will I had for you earlier. You've proven to be a much better person than I first thought."

"Same goes for me. And call me Mireille."

"Yes, Mireille."

"That's a good girl, Claes."

"Thank you."

**  
**_She looked up to the handsome man before her, felt the warmth of his love for her, and smiled. "Giuseppe."_

"_So you remembered."_

"_Of course I do. I promised, didn't I?"_

_He looked pleased. "You did good, Henrietta. I'm happy."_

"_You aren't angry? At me or Mireille?"_

"_Not at all. I'm very happy for the both of you. If you are happy, I'm happy, too."_

"_Thank you, Giuseppe."_

"_Be a good girl, all right? Protect Mireille as if she was me– no. Protect her because she is Mireille. Will you do that for me?"_

"_I will. Even if you didn't ask me, I'll protect her. She is important to me."_

"_You're a good girl, Henrietta."_

"_You're good, too, my dearest brother."_

_He smiled at that. "Don't wait for me anymore. I'll be the one waiting for you now. All right?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Take care, Henrietta."_

"_You, too, Giuseppe. And I love you."_

"_Me, too. Henrietta."_

**  
Explanation:** Chapter 9, as you've seen, has been edited, with all the references to the old Chapter 10 (the Rico-Meir ownership issue that rankled a number of people) removed.

Chapter 11, Fratello, will now take the place of Chapter 10 storywise. Chapter 10 will be replaced by an independent, non-canon, placeholder chapter that has no connection to the story.

My sincerest apologies to Nachtsider and to all who were dragged into this issue.

And now, if you will: life goes on.

**  
**_A few tidbits, here and there, bright flickers of happiness and hope in a world gone so wrong._ **Chapter 10: Placeholder.**


	10. Placeholder

Many of you may be wondering why Chapter 10 was deleted. Plot-wise, its deletion was a rather big, though not irreparable, loss.

You see, what happened was that it got popular because of a character I borrowed: Meir a.k.a. Emilio, who I **_borrowed_** off my good friend and fellow GSG author **Nachtsider** for my own use and purposes. I then consummated what Nachtsider had begun– resolving the greatest tragedy in the anime/manga, Rico killing Emilio– by making the two of them confess their love to each other.

And though I stated in my disclaimers that Meir was Nachtsider's OC, most people didn't noticed. After all, who reads disclaimers anymore? Certainly I don't.

And thus I racked up a lot of praise for someone I never had a hand in creating. That caused trouble, as though Nachtsider didn't mind, a number of people did.

To end the ruckus, I deleted Chapter 10 as advised by my friends. I have also modified Chapter 9 so that it no longer leads to Chapter 10. You might want to have a little look-see.

So there. If anyone really wonders just what they missed story-wise in _Life Goes On_ (and it is not much, really), contact me via Private Messaging system. I will privately furnish you a copy of Chapter 10 to satisfy your reading itch. However, I will not answer questions nor bring the chapter back **_ever_**. I have caused enough trouble. Let it lie.

I deeply apologize to Nachtsider, whom I've displaced and disturbed; as well as to Deathra, Colonel Marksman and Sintendo, who helped mitigate the damage I caused; and to all the people I may have unintentionally misled and troubled, especially my readers, whom I care about deeply.

And now, as a little sop, here's…

**  
a little placeholder story**

**  
**Triela stared at the impossible horror before her.

Hilshire was impeccably dressed. A bouquet of flowers adorned his right hand. His left held a box of expensive Swiss chocolates. Tucked into the breast pocket of his fancy black tuxedo was a cube-shaped bulge that unquestionably held a diamond ring. He looked absolutely handsome.

_This is impossible… like, the stuff of dreams._

_No. Not dreams. This is a nightmare._

_This is HELL._

"Triela. I love you. Will you marry me?"

**  
**Triela woke up in a sweat, her scream breaking Claes' enjoyment of yet another bodice-ripping novel.

"Triela, do you mind? Some of us are trying to enjoy themselves…"

Conditioning or no conditioning, the blonde girl swore to kill Hilshire tomorrow. _Frigging Prince Charming…_

**  
**Hilshire, selecting a box of Swiss chocolates as a small gift for Triela, wondered why he felt like impending doom was upon him.

Swordsmen. Killers. Elder brothers. Very much alive and human. Next on _Life Goes On: **Fratello **_**(Brother)**.


	11. Fratello

"_Giuseppe? My name is Rolito. I want to help you and your sister."_

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Giuseppe-_kun_. How would you like to work with me?"_

**  
Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_ and _Metal Slug_ are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' my original characters Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito.

**  
Chronology:** This story is set after the first season of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, and somewhere in the _Full Metal Panic TSR_ timeline.

**  
Eleven**

**_Fratello _(Brother)**

**  
**Giuseppe followed the same routine every six in the morning. Fix his bed. Wash his face. Do essentials. Check and tend his weapons and harness. Bathe thoroughly. Put on a fresh change of clothes and his equipment. Meet with Elena, this last being the most important. Even having a bad nightmare wouldn't change that, though he did linger at the mirror.

Not much had changed. A few scars here and there, mostly careless training accidents that didn't need real repairs, unavoidable. Mostly he looked older despite his cybernetics. Killing people tended to hasten maturity and dampen enthusiasm. But the naïveté of that kind Southern boy from Matera still remained in his blue eyes and pleasant smile. _The girls, _his _sensei_ once joked, _will still fall head over heels for you._

_Not bad._ _Now, to find Elena…_

His sister practiced archery in the firing range. Rolito-_sensei_ recommended the sport, said would help her get used to her new body. "And to protect herself, too." The ten year old girl proved a quick study. Just two months into the regimen, Elena already managed headshots with human target silhouettes ninety meters away.

The senior assassin himself supervised. Nothing like William Tell, Rolito _did_ know a lot about archery. He cut a reserved kind of stylish in his black woolen sweater, matching black pants, old leather shoes, and rather battered corrective eyeglasses. His premature grey hair and kindly eyes only accented the image of the kindly college professor.

"Let's take a break, Elena-_tan_." Rolito smiled. "We haven't eaten breakfast yet, and you'll probably get nervous with an empty stomach and your brother watching you."

"Thank you, _sensei_!" Elena was smaller than her brother, taking more after their mother, a bustling bee of happiness. With the white tee-shirt and gym shorts was archery gear: quiver belted to her thin waist, arm bracer on her right arm and protective leather tab on her drawing hand. Her long brown hair was tied into a ponytail instead of her usual twin braids to keep it out of her eyes. Her brown eyes danced. She was cute and knew it.

Her weapon was a horse archer's traditional bow, custom made in Mongolia by an ancient artisan who still practiced his ancestors' ways. Good wood reinforced by ivory. It could quickly turn a target into a pincushion over a surprising distance with less noise pattern and the same deadliness of a silenced rifle– and all off the back of a galloping horse. And it never jammed.

"Good morning, big brother," she greeted Giuseppe brightly.

"Morning, Elena. Good morning, _sensei_."

"Mornin', Giuseppe. What's for breakfast?"

He revealed sandwiches and orange juice. Rolito grumbled something obscure about rice being a staple in meals, but wolfed down the food at hand with gusto. In comparison, Giuseppe ate neatly while Elena nibbled with ladylike demureness.

"The Mongols really knew their bows," commented Rolito after his second cup of juice. "Compact, powerful, accurate and reliable. The best of its kind in the world, I'd say."

Yet another history lesson. Their _sensei_ always held that the past held the answers to the present. His mannerism was almost professorial, and he liberally sprinkled his lectures with quaint bits of history. His only explanation was being well-read. _Maybe he really taught history once,_ Giuseppe mused. "What about the English longbows?"

"They're in a different class and highly overrated. A longbow couldn't pierce plate armor and shields, even with that 'armor-piercing' Bodkin arrowhead. They've tried it in experiments. The only advantage longbows offered was en masse, like artillery, and only against lightly armored troops."

"But the Battle of Agincourt?"

"Was during bad weather in a muddy field . Which was the weather for most of the Hundred Years War. Not to mention the Continent. The French knights charged, only to trip and fall flat on their faces. Couldn't stand up or move quickly because of their heavy armor. The mud was like quicksand. The English simply fired off a swarm of arrows, then ran in and stabbed at the French's unarmored parts. Rinse and repeat. End of story."

Giuseppe conceded the infantry battle, but then took up the archery side of it. "But a crossbow couldn't match other bows' rate of fire."

"Not with a guy who reloads for you. The way to go is a two man team with two, three crossbows. A shooter and a dedicated reloader can put up as many arrows as a longbow. The crossbow team has more endurance than the solo bowman, and their shots _will_ go through armor. That's how Richard the Lionheart countered Saladin's horse archers."

Elena looked lost. She responded energetically to show-and-tell sessions but couldn't stand lectures. The girl was only twelve years old compared to Giuseppe's fourteen and Rolito's thirty-forty-something (the man never really put a specific age to himself). So their _sensei_ shifted the discussion to a more interesting –and personal– subject matter.

"Have I ever told you about the time I took on two dozen swordsmen by myself?" He hadn't. Both his wards were eyes and ears. "It was back in my days as an assassin for the Philippine government– yes, the Philippine government _had_ assassins, and no, we weren't responsible for _all_ the murders of local media men, only _some_ of them…"

**  
**They watched Elena put her fourth consecutive arrow into the head of her third target.

"She's a quick study." Rolito took a brief swig out of a small metal flask Giuseppe once wondered if it contained alcohol. It turned out to be mineral water.

"Quicker than me?"

"Much." A solid thud announced a fifth arrow joining its brethren. A short burst of applause from her audience. "I supposed I could have gotten her one of those new space-age composite material bows. They're real easy to use. Then again, they're also a hassle to assemble and hide, not to mention firing on the run."

"Why don't you just admit you're too stingy to withdraw out of your bank account and too lazy to buy her a proper weapon?" Giuseppe slyly poked.

"Stingy, yes. Lazy, no. You're not the one still wanted in North China." Once upon a time, Rolito killed a Deputy Minister of Defense in the People's Liberation Committee. The Chinese had a long memory for those kinds of things. Mongolia was just a stone's throw north of them. Not to mention immediately south of the Russians, the latter with their own reasons for wanting Rolito's head. Both countries had well-documented histories of border violations and having agents in the unlikeliest of places.

Of course he went there. He had to.

_The artisan I commissioned just _**had**_ to be a royal pain in the neck, too_, Rolito thought _Wanted_ _me to be there in person before even beginning work on the damn thing. Kept ranting about my spiritual worth or something to that effect. He took forever with it, too. Nearly got my ass caught several times. And to top it all off, the damn thing was _**expensive** _for something made out of wood and bone_. _Crazy old man…_

But for all the pain and effort and danger he endured, the bow was a masterpiece of a weapon, perfect for the girl he was turning into a killing machine.

Elena switched to a new target. Just as smoothly, Giuseppe switched topics.

"_Sensei_? Do you still remember when we first met?"

**  
**_"Giuseppe?"_

_He looked up from his bedridden sister, to the brown-skinned foreigner framed by the door. "Yes? Who are you?"_

"_My name is Rolito."_

_Not much taller than Giuseppe, the man did look far older, with graying hair and tired old eyes that had seen the world a dozen times over. But the easy movements and ramrod stance suggested iron discipline backed by a well of worldly experience. Like Giuseppe's father the soldier, dead and buried in foreign soil, killed in the service of his nation. And, strangely, sincerity and compassion in those black eyes, like that of his dead mother._

_Giuseppe himself was a mostly average Italian provincial, a bit tall for his thirteen years, tousled dark hair and black eyes his only paternal inheritance, young but strong, youthful vigor tempered by eight years of working on the street. He had never left Italy, more so his hometown of Matera in the Basilicata Region in the agricultural South. Born into a poor family in a poor province, he knew hardship and toil. But he also knew the closeness of a loving family, of a mother, two fathers and a younger sister._

_His sister. Elena. _Not my stepsister. My **sister**. My beloved sister.

_He gripped her small hand tight. She was so small. Her soft nut brown hair and pixie face made her seem much smaller, all the more frail and helpless. But she was stronger than she looked. She survived the fiery conflagration that killed her father–_ my **second** father, not my stepfather_– and their mother. Now, more than a third of her body crushed or scorched, her head shaved, Elena remained a pitiable sight, swaying between life and death, slipping away minute by minute even as her brother possessively held her hand._

_She was dying, and there was nothing Giuseppe could do about it._

_He had been lucky. Not that he felt so, but he was. He should have been home that deadly night but for his boss at the factory demanding overtime. That saved his life._

_His mother and father, as well as almost everyone living in that cramped communal apartment, instantly died when a faulty gas line exploded, incinerated where they stood and lived. Elena survived only because she was outside the building, waiting for her brother to come home. But she sustained massive burns to over thirty percent of her body and her legs had been crushed by the flying rubble. Even if she recovered– and the doctors said the odds were 10 to 1 against it–, her health would never be the same. She would be a cripple for life._

_Giuseppe was desperate. He had no money to pay the hospital bills, no family and friends to ask for help. And Elena was dying._

"_I want to help you and your sister." The man spoke unaccented Italian, the kind learned in formal language schools, stiff and proper._

"_What do you mean?"_

"_Giuseppe-_kun_." Rolito's smile was kind. "How would you like to work with me?"_

_He distrusted. Wisely. What was this _-kun_ business? Was this man a pedophile or a Mafia roller? He didn't know._

_But he also hoped. So a total stranger offered to help? It was not like he had any choice. Desperate men clung to desperate measures. And he would sell his body and soul to save Elena. _

_Giuseppe nodded._

**  
**"She doesn't seem to have any regrets. At least," Rolito mulled over, "None she's told me about." _None about being turned into a weapon and a potential murderer._

"Elena was dying. The doctors couldn't save her. But you found us. You brought us to Amalgam. They gave my sister a new body. You gave us new lives. You saved us, _sensei_."

_So could the Social Welfare Agency if they'd got to you first. Different organization, same sorry sack of shit._ The man did not bother suppressing his cynicism, though he did keep quiet._ Your childhood is gone. Your life as an adult is gone. You're a killer now, a weapon, a tool for Amalgam to use and discard as they please. You and Elena._

_Just like me._

Giuseppe seemed to have read his teacher's mind. "At least this way, we're together." He fondly gazed at his laboring sister. "Here, I can watch over Elena. And I'm happy enough for what I have."

"That's good. How about yourself, then? Any sins of commission or doubts?"

"I had a nightmare about the commandos I killed a week ago."

"That guy who named you?"

**  
**_The commando's decapitated head hung in mid-air as if suspended by an invisible line. Those mournful eyes full of regret and disbelief at the face their youthful killer bore. Dead, bloodless lips repeated his name over and over again._

Giuseppe. Giuseppe.

_However much he hacked at it, the head would not shut up. He tried running away, but it always overtook him. All it did was bleed and call him by name, accusing him with his own name, breathing it as if a curse._

Giuseppe. Giuseppe. GIUSEPPE.

**  
**"Yes." He looked up to his _sensei_ and said, "It was the most frightening thing for me: to think I was someone else."

"I see." Rolito pondered it over. "Well, it's actually good to hear you're having nightmares. _I_ still have my own nightmares from way back. We all do. And I would think you're crazy if you claimed you didn't feel bad in killing people." _Like that Altena bitch or those hot but crazy Chinese twins or– God grant he's dead for real at last, but I wouldn't bet on it– Gauron._

Seeing Giuseppe still morose, he elaborated. "It's okay to be frightened or feel guilty about killing. In fact, you _should_. Only psychos don't feel bad about killing. Your dreams and feelings prove you're well-grounded in reality. You feel you are responsible for the lives of the people you killed. You _are_.

"Guns kill at a distance. Shooters often don't get to see the face of their victim. The act is mechanistic, efficient and distant. But we swordsmen do our dirty work up close and personal. We see the faces of the people we kill. We see all the despair and anger and hate in their eyes. We remember them and maybe cry for them when we can.

"But most of all, we do what we have to do. We kill when we need to. We should be content we are alive to angst about it. Because more probably than not, the person you killed, if he or she was in your place, wouldn't give a damn if you were dead.

"So don't take it too hard on your part. You're a good boy. This is not just for your own sake, but for Elena's. Remember that. If nothing else, you kill to protect your sister. And if protecting Elena isn't worthy..."

"You're right, _sensei_. Thank you." Giuseppe's relief was palpable. Bring Elena into the discussion, and everything automatically righted itself in his world. His sister really was the moral balance he lived or died by.

_Like me back in the old days._ Rolito remembered a little girl not too unlike his younger ward. A skinny brown girl from a life so long ago who shared his eyes and ears but thankfully not his nose, her smile brightening his days, her laughter making his nights merry, her hug warming him like no fire could. _"I love you, _Kuya_,"_ she told him.

_Must be why I picked you, Giuseppe. You don't try too hard to change things outside your world view. What you focus on is the immediate: the space surrounding you, the people around you. Elena. And you fight like a hellion to keep that little world the way it is._

_For your sister, you'd fight the world._

_And you'll make it, Giuseppe. You'll do better than me. I can promise you that much._

"Now, what do you say to some sparring with me? I'm rusty, so go easy on me, 'kay?" The man patted the _katana_ that magically materialized at his side. The boy grinned.

"Sure, _sensei_."

**  
**Leonard Testarossa didn't like to drink alone. Nor did he like to drink. But the one man he'd like– and trusted enough– to share a drink with preferred to hang out with robotic hit-kids. His only other reliable companions were his Plan 1211 Astral human-sized Arm Slave bodyguards, a pair flanking the only entrance to the room, others patrolling the premises. They didn't drink on the job or ever.

So here he sat at a candlelit table, sipping his third glass of expensive wine and picking at the food out of sheer boredom. Not that he was drunk. His brilliant Whispered faculties peaked. Or perhaps that feeling was only a flawed perception of his alcohol-addled brain. Maybe he _was_ drunk. Whatever, his senses seemed heightened, his mental processes operating faster and clearer. Every possible path of thought blossomed open for him, revealing their secrets, empowering him.

Yet he was not omniscient. He wondered, for one, what Tessa was up to. Mithril's Intelligence Division had recently cleaned up its act with alarming alacrity. All but one of his spies had been captured or killed. And that one last agent might have been compromised all along. The dearth of good information galled him. He dearly wanted to know what nefarious traps his dear little sister had laid for him.

_And say what you will, but Tessa's learned the ropes of this dirty business much too quickly for my comfort. She grew up and became more professional, more _ruthless.

Death did that, of course. The death of someone you know and love, of someone you vowed to protect– and then failed to live up on that promise. It hurt in so many ways. It made one want to be as invincible as possible, to never experience such pain ever again.

But that was impossible. Not for Tessa or that SRT sergeant she doted on. Not even for Leonard himself.

He raised his glass to the chair across his table in a halfhearted salute. His smile and heart were as empty as the furniture.

_To you, Kaname. Much that I wish you were here with me right now as my guest, voluntary or not, still you are in a better place now, or so say all the religious nuts. At least I saw your funeral through real-time satellite link. I suppose that Mithril sergeant was always the better man in your eyes. Well, we're both deprived of your appreciation and company now. So there. Life won't be the same for us again, ever._

Yes. Life would never be the same.

"**Sir? Incoming virtual call. It's the US Undersecretary of Defense."**

The electronic voice was artificial, cold and robotic. _Yet another sterling work of my hands._ _Like my bodyguards. Like myself._ "Put him on Line One."

"**Understood."**

For now he set aside Chidori. _Now what can my dear customer want from me?_

**  
**"We have a new mission."

They celebrated Elena's completion of basic archery that night. The reward was ice cream: chocolate chips on chocolate for Rolito (who would not be left out) and vanilla for his wards, with sprinkles decorating Elena's and a thick serving of hot fudge slowly melting Giuseppe's.

Once finished, Rolito made the announcement. "One of the customers wants to know how we'd fare against people who could fight back. Specifically, other cyborgs."

"Section Two," Giuseppe immediately suggested. The Social Welfare Agency was the only local organization with equivalent equipment.

"Or Childville, though their representatives just pulled out of the country. At least, Intel _says_ they've pulled out." Rolito despised Amalgam's Intelligence Section. He regularly accused the intel weenies of "false advertising"; mainly, adding the word "intelligence" to their title when there wasn't a shred present in their collective heads– or reports.

_Then again, he claims the same for every intelligence agency in the world_, Giuseppe thought. _Well, _sensei_ is very experienced in such matters…_

"Anyway, the customer in question reminded the other buyers that we aren't the only people around with cyborg operatives. He also popped the big issue: who's better?" To which he and his students instantly agreed: _**us**._ "We all know the customer is right, right?

"So to settle the matter, we've going to prove our worth. We will goad Section Two into dispatching their 'mechanical body' operatives. We will then engage and destroy them."

Elena nervously chewed on one of her braids. Only now entering the immediate loop of combat operations, she was rightly concerned, mostly for her brother and also for their sometimes mercurial caretaker.

"Oh, don't worry, Elena-_tan_," Rolito cheerily reassured her. "We're going to keep it as safe and fair as possible."

_Now that was something_. Giuseppe could feel trouble brewing. Sensei_ always said that combat wasn't fair._

"I know, Giuseppe, I know. Combat isn't an Olympic sport and all that. Well, you're going to take on just a few of their mechanical bodies. Maybe just one or two at a time. Not even the handler, if we're lucky. And their guns aren't going to be much of a factor, either."

A rather tall order of promises, and when asked how he would do that, Rolito grinned boyishly. "I have a plan. It's brilliant."

Giuseppe groaned. Elena, not having been professionally acquainted with their teacher long enough yet, didn't understand. But her brother knew better. Rolito was scariest whenever he acted so incorrigibly cheerful. It was like he became a completely different– and infinitely more dangerous– person.

"Leave everything to me, Giuseppe-_kun_."

_Yep,_ the boy gloomily thought,sensei_'s off his rockers again…_

"So when are we going out?" the now-eager Elena asked. Rolito instantly sobered.

"You're staying behind, Elena."

"But, _sensei_!"

"No buts. You're not cleared for combat. You're the prototype. The lab weenies reconfigured you for frontline combat only three months ago. You've been doing basic archery for just two. You haven't begun basic combat training yet. It's not enough for me to take you on even a routine surveillance mission."

"But I want to go with big brother!" The girl hovered on the verge of tears. "And you promised I could!"

"Elena," Giuseppe tried. A quick gesture from Rolito stopped him.

"Okay. Let's compromise, Elena. I'm going to give you an order. If you can do it, we're bringing you along. All right?"

"Okay!" She looked so happy to risk her life, to kill people, just to be with her brother. "What is it?"

"Kill Giuseppe."

Elena froze. Giuseppe started.

"You heard me. Shoot him in the eye while it's open," Rolito advised off-handedly. "Otherwise, you won't be able to even slow him down. Here." He found half a dozen arrows, tossed them into her hands. "Careful there. They're tipped with ricin. That's a very potent neurotoxin that kills almost immediately. You might be a cyborg, but you still have blood and a nervous system. A nick in the wrong place can still kill you."

"This," Elena stammered, "This is a joke, right? A bad joke. Right, _sensei_?"

"I meant every word I said." To the protesting Giuseppe: "Stow it."

She stared. "I thought you wanted to go on this mission," Rolito coldly asked. "I'm ordering you to kill Giuseppe. That's an order. If you can't follow orders, you shouldn't be out in the battlefield. Now, kill him."

"No…"

"_Sensei!"_

"I said, _kill your brother_."

"No!" Bow and arrows clattered to the floor. Elena buried her face in her small hands. "I can't do it! I can't! He's my brother! I don't want to kill him!"

Rolito knelt down and hugged the weeping girl very warmly. "This is why you shouldn't go. Not yet." _Never. Not if I can help it._ "And I'm sorry."

**  
**They tucked Elena into bed. It took a glass of milk and five cookies, Giuseppe holding her hand all the while, but she slept like a baby. Not a sound or shiver. Come morning she would have mostly forgotten what happened last night and be her sweet self again.

_When do we adults lose the capability to sleep like that?_ _The ability to wake up fresh and innocent and happy?_ Rolito honestly wanted to know. But he focused on the mission.

"No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy. The jammers might not work. The enemy might have six hundred mechanical bodies instead of six. Who knows? So expect the unexpected. Being prepared is half the battle. But don't over-plan. Be versatile, flexible. Flow with the situation. Oh, and always cheat. All's fair in love and war."

He produced a folder marked **Top Secret: Project "Justice Bodies" Mechanical Bodies Roster, Section Two, Social Welfare Agency**, courtesy their late Section One connection. _To you, Draghi, you backstabbing bastard. I hope Hell isn't too hot for you– or for me, when I get there on my own time._

"Here're the files on our targets. Take a good look at them. You might even want to keep a picture or two at your pillow side. If nothing else, they're cute as buttons. Shame you'd have to kill them."

Giuseppe read the name beneath the first mechanical body featured, a shy-looking girl he would need to kill.

"Henrietta…"

**  
**In war, information is ammunition. The news, then, is perhaps the Holy Grail of intelligence. Next on _Life Goes On: **Notizie** _**(News)**.


	12. Notizie

_The mechanical bodies are still children. We're still needed, more so now than ever. They are our responsibilities. And I couldn't abandon Henrietta even if I wanted or needed to._

_I won't._

**  
Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer: **_Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_ and _Metal Slug_ are owned by their respective owners. The CRG is owned by Colonel Marksman. I 'own' my original characters Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_ manga, several years after _Noir_, and sometime after _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_.

**  
Twelve**

**_Notizie _(News)**

**  
**_"Breaking news: terrorists have hijacked the oil tanker _Mirasol_ while the latter was anchored off Trieste this 11:32 PM…"_

_**  
**"There were maybe a dozen, two dozen of them," one dazed crewman breathily told reporters. "They came out of the night. They were all dressed in black and armed with automatics save for this one guy with a sword. Can you believe that? The guy had a _sword_! Of all things! What was it called again? A samurai sword, right. And there was a kid with them, too. Must have been a child soldier or something…"_

**  
**_"The terrorists who seized the _Mirasol_ have identified themselves as the Covenant Reformation Group, a quasi-religious terrorist organization proposing…"_

**  
**_The ski-masked figure glared at the camera. "We are the Covenant Reformation Group. Our demands are simple and known to the government and the Vatican. If they are not complied with in three days, we will destroy the _Mirasol_ here."_

**  
**"_The administration condemns the Covenant Reformation Group's actions," the spokesman for the Prime Minister stated. "We reiterate our position of no negotiations with terrorists, but we assure the public that we are working to secure a quick resolution to this crisis…"_

**  
**_"…The _Mirasol _crisis may end up as the most massive ecological disaster in Europe … the tanker is still loaded with 200,000 barrels of oil… an oil spill would ruin the Adriatic and Ionian Seas and perhaps the Mediterranean as well…_

**  
**_"If the _Mirasol_ explodes, it would destroy or severely damage up to a quarter of Trieste's port facilities… the destruction of such a high-profile vessel at an important port in the region, so close to Greece and the volatile Balkan region, could open up a whole can of worms…"_

**  
**_"In the light of the danger posed by the possible destruction of the _Mirasol_, Trieste is being evacuated. The docks have been cleared of civilians… military and police personnel have cordoned the area… Vehicular traffic has ground to a halt as panicked locals flee on whatever transportation is available…"_

**  
**_"We are currently flying closer to the tanker in order to get a better view of the situation– what's that? Oh, my G-!"_

"_Maria? Come in! What happened? Maria? Maria!"_

**  
**_"MANPADS, short for MAN Portable Air Defense System, is a highly effective short range mobile anti-aircraft missile system in service with the US Army and NATO... It is rumored that many such weapons have ended up in the black market, through which the Covenant Reformation Group may have acquired several units such as the one used to shoot down our news helicopter earlier this morning…"_

**  
**_"…the military has declared the airspace for fifty miles around the _Mirasol_ to be closed to civilian traffic. They have also shut down our on-scene camera teams, perhaps preparing for an assault on the _Mirasol_…"_

**  
**_"We have unconfirmed reports that a commando team is attempting to retake the _Mirasol_ at this very moment…"_

**  
**_"We have exclusive coverage of the terrorist leader's latest announcement. Viewers are warned that the next scenes are not suitable for a young audience…"_

**  
**_"This is the Covenant Reformation Group. The administration has failed our expectations. They have not acceded to our demands. Instead, they sent in their hired dogs to kill the faithful sons of the Church. But we are patient men. We give the administration another chance to consider its follies. We also return the bodies of the brave soldiers, and promise to do the same for any other who try to attack us..."_

**  
**_"Protest rallies demanding the resignation of the current administration due its inability to resolve the so-called _Mirasol_ crisis effectively, especially in the light of the failed commando assault, are gathering in the streets of Rome…"_

**  
**_"The _Mirasol_ crisis enters its second turbulent night…"_

**  
**

* * *

"It's a trap." 

And a fiasco for everyone involved. The Mayor of Trieste had already resigned. More resignations and even a few suicides would follow. The Army lost twenty commandos and its confidence. The current administration neared political collapse. People were taking to the streets, demanding action _now_, calling for impeachment and new elections.

The news outside the country wasn't any better. Italy's Balkan neighbors, as well as Greece and Cyprus, had mobilized their own armed forces– ostensibly to protect themselves, but also to exploit the situation. Disputes flared up over the slightest accusations, inevitably followed by border clashes and major troop call-ups. In just two days, the Mediterranean was now a hotter powder keg than the Middle East.

But relative calm reigned at the Social Welfare Service's headquarters, calm enforced by discipline and Jean's leadership.

**  
**"Shortly before midnight, a group of fifteen men hijacked the national oil tanker _Mirasol_ while it was docked off Trieste. The crew were rounded up and released shortly afterwards. The terrorists identified themselves as members of the Covenant Reformation Group and demanded, among other things, that the Pope step down, with a deadline of three days for compliance.

"After they shot down a civilian news helicopter, the Army went in with twenty commandos. Not one soldier got back alive. The deadline remains. We have less than twenty four hours left before the terrorists fulfill their threat to destroy the _Mirasol_.

"Except," Jean pointed out, "The Covenant Reformation Group has never attacked any economic targets before. An attack on a national oil tanker is out of their league. We are left with only one suspect: the mysterious organization that fields mechanical bodies."

He already had a name. Amalgam. An infamous criminal organization that marketed advanced weapons systems, mainly Arm Slaves, to the highest bidders. Though its name was well-known, information on Amalgam itself was scarce. Jean planned to remedy that one day.

"They know we exist. They know of our capabilities. Their attack on Section One was meant as a message to us. And now this." He gestured contemptuously at footage of the dead Army commandos. "Those soldiers were killed with bladed weapons. Just like Section One's First Platoon. They let us have the bodies back to advertise themselves. They even let the crew go. They don't want hostages. They want _us_.

"They're practically inviting us in. They want us to come to them, to fight them in a place of their choosing. And the _Mirasol_ is perhaps the best place in Italy to fight us. Our guns are next to useless there. The tanker is loaded with nearly a quarter of a million barrels of oil. One wrong bullet, and the entire ship and most of Trieste's docks will go up in flames, and the resulting oil spill will render the Adriatic lifeless for years to come.

"Then there are political ramifications. Damage to Italian political and economic prestige. Loss of public confidence in the government. Possibly war in the Mediterranean and Balkans. It's come to the point that higher up wants us to use only rubber bullets in the assault rather than risk accidentally blowing up the tanker."

And rubber bullets, everyone knew, wouldn't even bruise mechanical bodies. Still, they had to go in, even though there seemed no way to win. It was a nightmare scenario with no happy ending in sight.

"No matter what we do," grumbled Amadeo, "we've got a bum draw. Any way, we lose."

"Then let's reshuffle our hand some." Mireille explained.

**  
**

"NATO Special Forces Command." 

"I need to speak with Sergeant Major Germi."

"May I know who is calling, please?"

"Jean. From the Social Welfare Service."

**  
**"Fermi here."

"Pietro! It's Mireille."

"Ah, Mireille! It's good to hear from you! How is my godchild?"

"She's doing quite well. Our mutual acquaintance wants to ask if you can send the boys over to play with our kids."

"Oh? Does it have to do with the new kids on the block?"

"Yes, they're definitely old friends of ours."

"Then it's all I can do to hold my boys back. They'll be there."

**  
**

* * *

The next morning saw an impressive gathering. Not only was all the available strength of Section Two's _Fratello_ teams present, but also the remainder of Section One's commandos with their newly-appointed leader, burly ex-Army captain Gabriele Leopardi, plus Master Sergeant Fiolina Germi and the elite multinational "Sparrows". 

Jean presided over the myriad operatives. "Our primary mission is to retake the tanker _Mirasol_ and prevent it from being destroyed. Our secondary objective is to engage and destroy any enemy mechanical bodies. Maps of the _Mirasol_ will be provided to the handlers and team leaders.

"On the disposition of our forces: Rico and Second Platoon's sharpshooters are on sniping detail. Henrietta, Triela, Claes, for the bow assault force, with Mireille and Altheus for support. Beatrice and Liesel on the stern assault force, to be supported by the Sparrows and the rest of Second Platoon.

"We will attack at night. The snipers will clear the tanker's upper deck of enemy missileers and sentries. Once the top is clear, the assault elements will move in. The stern assault teams, using scuba gear, will attack first. The Sparrows and Beatrice will capture the bridge while Second Platoon and Liesel take the engineering room.

"At the same time, the bow assault team will be inserted via Zodiac." The Zodiac was a high-speed inflatable rubber boat, perfect for commando ops. "The mechanical bodies will clear the ship while their support team looks for bombs.

"Our opposition is a dozen to twenty terrorists, all armed with automatic weaponry, and at least one enemy mechanical body. There is also the possibility of bombs on the _Mirasol_. This makes capturing live terrorists imperative. We need to know the location of any bombs. Any prisoners are to be interrogated on the spot. Once a bomb has been located, the Sparrows will move in and defuse it. Liesel will cover you. If the bow assault team is the one who finds it, Altheus will handle it.

"Once the ship is cleared of bombs, all _Fratello _teams will fan out, seek enemy mechanical bodies, engage them and destroy them. If by any chance the conventional teams encounter them, leave them to your partner _Fratello_. Do not directly engage.

"Remember, we are fighting on very dangerous ground. One wrong move, one badly placed bullet, and the _Mirasol_ will explode, killing everyone on board, us included. The enemy has most assuredly laid traps, and they have mechanical bodies lying in wait. I want everyone to be careful and to stick to the plan.

"Finally, I need not remind any of you about the importance of our mission. If these terrorists destroy the _Mirasol_, there will be severe national and international repercussions. The fate of Italy truly rests in our hands. Questions?"

Captain Leopardi posed a good one. "The last time, the bastards jammed First Platoon's communications. What's to stop them from doing the same to us?"

"We've got that covered, Captain," Fio assured him. "My electronics warfare team is on standby. We'll keep our airwaves clean and give them a taste of their own medicine. We've also provided secure communications gear for everyone."

"And weapons?"

"That's the big problem," Jean admitted. "I'm afraid all the assault rifles are to be loaded with rubber-tipped bullets. It was all we could do to persuade the higher-ups to allow us to use live bullets for the handguns–" Fio's sigh of relief was audible "–and submachine guns. No grenades, either, not even tear gas."

"Well," Leopardi rumbled, "Plastic bullets or not, headshots are still headshots." Second Platoon prided itself on its marksmanship. He turned to Mireille. "Though I really want a crack at that cyborg bastard who killed Forelli, we'll leave them to your people. Make the son of a bitch pay."

_A reasonable Section One man?_ The Section Two people were pleasantly surprised. Not so Mireille. Fermi gave her a heads up when she called. Leopardi was a good man, open-minded and professional.

"You can count on us, Captain," she said.

"Any other questions?" There were none. Jean nodded. "Then let's get going."

**  
**Triela savagely stuffed the bayonet into her M1897 Trench Shotgun. If she didn't know any better, she'd suspect the terrorists to be consorting with dark powers or Jean a sadistic bastard. _The mission just _had_ to happen on my _period_. It always _has_ to._ All the talk about rubber bullets only worsened her already sorely-tried temper.

At least not all their weapons were nullified. Handguns and submachine guns were deemed mostly safe to use inside the tanker– just so the shooter paid attention and took care. Same with Triela's M1897, the hollowpoint rounds in her H&K P7M8 pistol, and her trusty low-tech bayonet.

Of course, shooting a mechanical body with any bullet smaller than 7.62mm armor piercing was just a little more effective than pelting it with rocks. A shotgun blast would be roughly equal to showering it with prickly gravel. And a bayonet would do little more than tickle.

_Unless you put it right through an eye. That is,_ she grimly appended,_ if they don't have the armored eyelid yet, like with Petrushka._

Hilshire was not helping. Her handler wanted to join the bow assault team. He'd only slow the mechanical bodies down, couldn't even swim if his life depended on it, but he still wanted to come along. He finally abided by Jean's decision. That did not stop him from grumbling. And mostly within Triela hearing, too.

_What the heck is wrong with him? Does he have a death wish or something? What is it with men and their obsession with keeping a macho image? Not that Hilshire isn't ma–_ she stomped the thought dead.

_Why am I so negative today? Oh, right, because I'm bleeding between my legs and can't do a thing about it. At least I _am_ good at hand to hand,_ Triela allowing herself a small, mental pat on the back, _as Pinocchio found out too late, the bastard_. _But, hell, rubber bullets, my ass. I'll go with cold steel whenever I c– **OWW**!_

She had nicked her thumb on the bayonet. Nursing the offending finger in her mouth, Triela silently cursed herself, Hilshire, the terrorists, Hilshire, her period, Hilshire, Hilshire again... "Maybe I should have signed up for Krav Maga lessons when I could."

Catching sight of Rico made her nip her tongue in self-reprimand, which in turn was cause for another pained grimace.

But her fellow blonde only smiled at the twin-tailed girl's antics. Rico caressed the simple metal ring on her left forefinger, remembered the promise it reinforced, and thought of the boy who made her world go round.

**  
**_"I'll come back for you."_

"_I'll wait for you."_

**  
**Muttering insensible sounds while Rico lost herself in romantic reverie, Triela then realized something. _Hey, I seem to have exchanged roommates…_

**  
**"Let us say," Claes dictated most professorially, "that you have a rifle and a bear– or the enemy mechanical body– is charging straight for you. What bullet would be more effective to _knock_–" she emphasized the word "–it down with? A normal bullet or a rubber one?"

"The real bullet, of course," instantly answered Henrietta.

"Wrong. The rubber bullet has a better chance of knocking the bear down."

"What? Really? How?"

"It's simple physics involving elasticity and momentum." Claes explained at length, drawing on several diagrams from a Physics textbook. "Do you understand?"

"I think so." She didn't, but the question was rhetorical.

"Good. Of course, you'd better be ready to run once the bear or mechanical body gets back on its feet."

"But you're not going to let it stand up," Henrietta finished. The redhead was now over her disenchantment with her F2000 assault rifle's load of rubber-tipped bullets. Besides, she still had her Kahr, and .40 ACP was a pretty good caliber for most anything.

Claes was equipped differently. While the hitting power of her VP-70M pistol and MP-7 submachine gun (her usual MP-5K temporarily sidelined as next to useless in this mission) were decidedly anemic against mechanical bodies, the dark-haired girl chose real bullets. She would deliver the coup de grace to any enemy Henrietta knocked down.

"Very good. Now let's go see Mireille."

"Yes! Um, Claes? You really know everything, don't you?"

There was a long spate of silence. "Work on your humor, Henrietta. That's an order."

"Yes, ma'am."

**  
**Mireille didn't know why watching Captain Leopardi and Hilshire argue about which Section was superior amused her. _Oh, right. Triela might get envious and wonder what way Hilshire leaned. Well, better he argue with the good Captain than with _her_. Or maybe not. A woman scorned…_ "Sergeant Major Germi," she greeted the approaching woman.

"Call me Fio. Miss Bouquet, right?"

"Mireille. We met back in the operation against the CRG arms dealers."

"We did. I've heard a lot of things about you, Mireille. Mostly good things."

"Mostly?"

Fio aimed a rather naughty sideways glance at Jean. Mireille chuckled. "Now who should I thank for that juicy piece of gossip?" Personally she suspected Priscilla.

"Oh, I have my sources."

"I see." _It's Priscilla, all right. She did start the entire Hirscher-Triela issue. Well, the next hand-to-hand sparring session…_ "You looked rather relieved at Jean's announcement."

"I should." Fio fondly patted her wicked matte black S&W revolver. Her assigned assault weapon, an MP-5N, didn't get the same kind of affection. ".44 Magnum. It's been with me since I entered the service. It's both a good luck charm and an old friend. I'd hate to pull its teeth."

"You only have six shots," Mireille pointed out.

"Six has always been enough for me. Maybe _you_ need more than six bullets."

"It's called 'insurance'." Both women laughed. "Any comments on the mission?"

"It's okay, we're cool. My Team's trained up in underwater insertions and shipboard assault. What I'm worried about are your girls."

Following typical police counterterrorist doctrine, Section Two's mechanical bodies were trained and equipped to operate in urban Italy. Operation Iraqi Freedom was their first sojourn outside the country, in a foreign and hostile environment completely different from the homeland they'd known and defended. That they performed admirably was expected; but there was always the nagging doubt about flukes.

In addition, the mechanical bodies were much heavier than normal human children due to their cybernetics. Their dense weight made swimming difficult, though not impossible. Beatrice, for one, liked to swim and did so whenever she could. Not for the first time, mechanical construction became a limiting factor and human drive proved stronger, Beatrice's 'hobby' now worth its weight in gold. And Liesel had been trained in scuba by the ever-prescient Altheus. Both girls constituted the stern assault team's cyborg muscle.

But the other handlers neglected to do the same. Partly it was convenience. Section Two wasn't expected to fight at sea. The rest of the girls didn't know how to swim. Out of the handlers themselves, only Mireille, Altheus and Petrushka's handler, Alessandro, could swim. So only the first two joined the bow assault team, Petrushka and Alessandro currently indisposed on another mission.

Anyway, the handlers' immediate presence wasn't critically required. Iraqi Freedom had proved the mechanical bodies capable of independent operations. Perhaps in the near future, the handler wouldn't be needed anymore in combat operations- or at all.

_No,_ Mireille silently, powerfully countered_. The mechanical bodies are still children. They always will be. They can't decide what's right or wrong, only that they have to kill. We're still needed, more so now than ever. We're the closest they have to parents. They are our responsibilities. And I couldn't abandon Henrietta even if I wanted or needed to._

_I won't._

**  
**"Miss Mireille!" greeted the newly-arrived Henrietta, Claes in tow. "Oh, good evening, Miss Germi."

"'Etta," her handler scolded. "What did I tell you to call me?"

"Oh. Sorry, Mis– ah, Mireille."

"And call me Fio, too, while you're at it," the Special Forces officer added.

"We're friends," Mireille elaborated.

"Definitely." Then, giving in to an overwhelmingly childish compulsion, Fio ruffled the somewhat confused but very cute Henrietta's hair. The girl flinched.

"Um, Miss Fio, please don't do that, you're mussing my hair…"

"But I can't help it! You're so cute! And call me Fio!"

Mireille laughed. "By the way, Henrietta." She picked up the Amati violin case at her feet. "Here. It's yours. Open it."

She did. Stared at what lay within. The weapon was compact black plastic and metal, sleekly boxy, with an ambidextrous bullpup grip and conveniently transparent magazine. It was deadly-looking and also very familiar.

A Fabrique Nationale FN P90. _My gun… the gun Giuseppe gave me..._

"I thought you should have it back, especially with this entire rubber bullet fiasco," Mireille was saying when Henrietta hugged her.

"Thank you, Mireille. Thank you."

**  
**_With people like Henrietta and Fio at my side,_ Mireille thought,_ how can I ever lose?_

**  
**Before the plunge into the abyss, one takes a deep breath. Before the bloody battle, a man takes a moment to reminisce on the end of the world. Next on _Life Goes On: **Rimuginare**_** (Muse)**.


	13. Rimuginare

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer: **_Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. CRG owned by Colonel Marksman. I 'own' my original characters Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, a year or so after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga). Will release a semi-chronology soon.

**  
Thirteen**

**Rimuginare**

_Musing_

**  
**Rolito felt no joy. Not because Murphy's Law loomed unseen over his head, waiting to cut him down to size if he so much indulged a single moment of smugness. No, his accomplishments were nothing to be proud or happy about.

It was a letter perfect mission so far. Initial planning alone was a breeze. Not a single need or problem, however minor, was overlooked.

Manpower came first. Amalgam troopers were nice but off-limits. No use having one of them captured, tortured ("We don't bother with niceties," Leonard noted matter-of-factly, "And neither do our enemies." Rolito agreed.) and pointing every commando in the world in their direction. A third party was found.

The CRG wanted revenge. They happily lent "Colonel Daren" (Rolito posed as s a Taiwanese Chinese weapons dealer) a dozen men, all trusted "sons of God and brothers of Christ". They wouldn't slow down a conventional assault, much more cyborgs. But they could manage the bridge and engineering, freeing him one hassle. Early warning would be provided by a network of remote sensors placed throughout the ship. Rolito and Giuseppe handled the killing.

Phase Two: securing a good battleground. Hijacking the _Mirasol_ was his most ingenious move yet. The Italian-flagged tanker was the last place anyone wanted to have a gunfight. Carrying two hundred thousand barrels of crude oil, it was a floating disaster looking for a place and time to happen. The mere thought of a spill sent chills down the spines of every soul on both sides of the Adriatic. And if it exploded–

But there were no bombs aboard. Rolito didn't bother calling Franco and Franca, his only reliable local source of such. Those two would balk at blowing up an oil tanker parked off their homeland's scenic shores. Terrorists they might be, but they were also patriots. (_What a strange combination._) Neither did he relish the thought of fighting on a huge and primed Molotov cocktail. Besides, his mission wasn't to destroy the _Mirasol_, but to defeat Section Two. _No expending energy on side issues,_ he always told Giuseppe.

Forcing the enemy to pussy-foot around was invaluable. "How many mines do you need to make a minefield?" a US General once asked a reporter during the nuclear-aborted First Gulf War. "None. All you need is a press conference."

The Italian media, as well as standard terrorist and commando doctrine, was doing exactly that. "They just have to have bombs. They'reterrorists!"

_It was so nice to be scarier than you actually are._

He quickly got rid of the civilians. Managing twelve men, one cyborg and– but he kept his ace in the hole secret for now– was difficult enough. Prisoners were only useful so far. Rolito wasn't bloodthirsty. Releasing the crew ensured Section Two would know about them. Same reason Giuseppe (masked for anonymity, but the message his presence delivered was crystal clear) stood within camera view during the televised speech.

_Ah, yes. The speech._ Rolito was Catholic, though not the kind espoused by the CRG. _Zealots are all the same the world over._ _So shortsighted._

Admittedly they were useful tools. And the CRG was helping him so he needed to respect their views to make them feel good. Or at least keep his cynicism to himself. So Rolito dutifully read aloud makeshift prompt cards with his angriest tone, threatening death to all heathens at the hands of the Godly. Giuseppe's mask hid a smile at his _sensei_'s pretend rabblerousing. They had a good laugh after that.

What followed next wasn't funny. To belabor his allies' point– and prove he kept their best interests in mind–, Rolito shot down a TV news helicopter. _It was a military necessity. Was it?_

Watching burning pieces of the multimillion euro aircraft plunge into the dark waters, he allowed a little pity for the four lives he'd just snuffed out.

_And Mommy always wanted me to be a journalist…_

A reaction was expected. That the commandos attacked during the **day** surprised him. It was a shame (but also a relief) that it was the Italian Army and not Section Two. Complicating things were inflatable human-sized dummies that Rolito scattered here and there earlier, wasting ammo and confusing the attackers, slowing them down.

The soldiers did kill two and wound three of the CRG contingent. Then the Amalgam assassins hit. The battle became a slaughter. Only a matter of Giuseppe running down the last commando, who put up a brave stand and went down fighting, and it was done. Tenuous peace returned to the _Mirasol_.

_For all it's worth…_

For the first time since the mission began, Rolito wished he brought Elena along. _Having a second mechanical body around isn't such a bad idea now, is it? Not with half a dozen or so wanting your head, and only one on your side. And it's nice to talk to someone who likes you. The CRG bastards sure as hell don't. Especially that punk Patricio. Wanted me to kiss a crucifix and all. After what I've done, seeing what he and his buddies had done and wanted to do, he still believes God is on his side?_

_We are who we are: the folly born of our hubris, Lucifer fallen from the sky as if lightning. God forgive us– if He still has the stomach for us. Amen._

Giuseppe patrolled the corridors below. Rolito was supposed to be doing the same on the sundeck. _Instead, here I am, spacing out, practically begging for a knife in the back or a bullet in the head_. It would be ironic, but also funny, if after all his preaching about alertness, he then got himself killed in a careless moment like this.

But he couldn't help it. He found the whole business distasteful. He would rather think of something else. Not necessarily a better topic, but what was? Besides, he was feeling his age again. _When was the last time I took my medicine? I can't remember anymore…_

The gifted (one of his few arrogant affectations) historian in him decided to tackle the radical evolution of human warfare.

Conventional ground forces were proving too big and bulky for the rapid, sinuous flow of recent conflicts. They were also proving vulnerable to the killing grounds of the urban environment, as the Americans relearned to their sorrow in Iraq. The lethality and range of modern weapons ensured the Americanism "If you can see it, you can hit it; and if you can hit it, you can kill it." Except that now other people were using it.

Sure, armies still retained their original value of taking and holding territory. But wars were no longer about land. They were about political and economic goals. You didn't have to kill every Tom, Dick and Harry in uniform. You just had to persuade them that taking you on will cost them far more than what they'd care to spend. That was the concept behind _détente_.

No, numbers didn't do it anymore. Neither did weight. You had to be an amalgam (he smiled at that) of the best. Fleet but hard-hitting. Precision, skill and drive. A boxer, not a puncher. A rapier, not a sledgehammer. Butterfly and bee combined in a killer package.

The Arm Slave was a step in the right direction: speed, protection and firepower in a relatively compact package. But it was little more than a glorified tank-jet hybrid. Already big and expensive, they were definitely overkill for running down guerrillas –the "civilized" world's new enemies– hunkering inside sewers and deserts despite the Soviets' penchant for using them in such a manner.

No, special operations units were now the vogue. Fast, precise, hard-hitting, stealthy, clean and deniable. And spec-ops had endlessly improved ever since Ulysses conceived the Trojan Horse (Rolito believed that legend always had to have at least a little bit of truth behind it). Paired with advanced technology and firepower, the commando was, pound for pound, perhaps the most tactically powerful trooper in history and reality.

Yet they were mortal, still, and fallible. They were only human. Perfection remained a far-away dream.

Enter cyborgs. Stronger, faster and tougher than the most seasoned and fit commando, capable of being trained and equipped to an equivalent or superior level, a single unit would be a powerful force multiplier. _Those who can turn the tide of battle with their very presence alone,_ the more lyrically inclined part of Rolito mused.

But there was no romance in war, only starkly cold practicality. And one glaring problem with the otherwise grand vision of the cyborg soldier remained. So far, all mechanical bodies were children. And for all the good reasons, too– if one can term 'good' a reason for creating a killing machine.

Children were smaller targets, required less resources to convert and maintain, and were more obedient and easily bent by conditioning. (Even Amalgam cyborgs used such drugs, though to a far lesser extent than their contemporaries.) And even the most hardened killer would hesitate to shoot a child– allowing the "child" to shoot first. And the side who shot first almost always won.

There was no changing that. _What's to change? Thousands of years of human preference? Common sense?_

He found the demand for secrecy slightly ridiculous. **_Top Secret, Classified, need to know basis._** His own wards were protected by a simple technique: everyone else didn't know they existed.

But there was no thing as a complete secret. Someone always knew. Rumors got out. Spies slipped in. The very lack of evidence was evidence enough. "_Cannot be confirmed– nor denied…" _Everyone knew to some degree or another. They just didn't want to talk about it.

Rolito didn't bother with illusions. A firestorm of outrage would break out once news of the cyborg children's existence leaked to the general public. Whatever nation or race or creed, all acknowledged children to be important.

The repercussions would be felt worldwide. Italy was still a conservative Catholic country. At its heart was the heart of Catholicism, a heart shared by Christians and the West. And the rest of the world would follow suit. Section Two and its sibling organizations would be publicly shut down.

But what would happen to their operational units? Would they simply go back to their original lives? _Hey, little girl, you can stop being a killing machine now. Here are your dresses and your favorite teddy bear Jean Paul. Go home, hug your new mommy and daddy, and tell them you love them very much and won't need to kill anyone anymore._

Gloved hands gripped the rail tight. _No._ All the good intention in the world wouldn't even slow down the really determined governments and militaries and terrorists. Sure, everyone would sign impressive documents and hold international conferences condemning the use of cyborgs and their users, denying possession of such. And behind the smiles they would be hurrying to make or steal their own units, to make them better, to keep them a secret until the time was ripe to let loose the dogs of war.

An arms race unlike all others was coming. Focusing on human weapons, on children converted into robot soldiers, to be sent to kill and be killed in accordance with national policy and the dictates of the selfish bastards occupying the top.

_Wars are always fought by children. And war is only murder en masse. _

_Children murdering other children…_ The thought made him, a veteran murderer, sick. _We're not content with killing each other. We have to bring our kids into our sins, too?_

There was no stopping it. Italy's Section Two, Israel's Childville, the Americans' Handsome Men (_and what kind of name is that?_), the Soviets' "SOP 002", his own wards in Amalgam's "Project Child"...

Even Japan, "Self Defense Force" Japan, had joined the bandwagon of mutual suicide. Rolito's extensive connections hinted about a newly-formed Special Missions Team with an unspoken but easily guessed mission. He even had a name. **Chise. **An acronym? **C**ybernetic **H**umanoid **I**ndependent **S**trategic **E**ngager? Or maybe that was her real name. She _was_ a girl, after all. _Only ten or eleven. _And cute, too, from the pictures his contact smuggled out.

_Ten, cute and a flying launcher for pinpoint hydrogen bombs._ She would be the weapon to render all other weapons obsolete, the goddess of Death, Mistress Kali, Shiva the Destroyer, the fire that purified Heaven and Earth of the filthy pollution that is Man.

Words came unbidden to his mind and lips.

"_Saishū Heiki Kanojo."_

**She, The Ultimate Weapon.**

_You were always good with names and words. But fancy words and pretty names are not going to change the fact that the world is about to end._

The only thing the human race was good at was killing itself. Humans we so engrossed in it, they fail to notice they were killing the planet faster than they did each other. Pollution. Topsoil erosion. Global warming. Overpopulation.

_Not that it really matters. We breed faster than we die. Like cockroaches, if with a couple million years less of a head start. We'll outlast the Earth's bio system– only by a few days, sure, but what was a minute here or there? We're all going to die, anyway?_

_That or we'll finally succeed in killing each and every one of us on this little planet. Given time and considering how stupid we are, that's a likely possibility…_

He could always blame the Whispered. A lot of people did. Arm Slaves were bad enough._ But no, they had to build something that could wipe out the human race. And it had to be _**cute**_, too. The stupid voices in their heads should do us a favor and just shut up._

Yet in the end, the culprit was not mysterious voices or tormented individuals, but men. Selfish, sorry, stupid Man, who began the entire thing in the first place and was bound by stupidity and obstinacy to see it through to the deadly finish.

_Our only true sciences are discord and death and self-destruction._

_And you're one of the leading proponents. Bravo, honorable sir. I applaud your hypocrisy._

_What would Jess say to the idea of her being made into a killing machine? Even Masakari didn't go around killing children. And you called her a psycho. What does that make you, then?_

_Hypocrite. Coward. Failure. Monster. Human._

_How do I tell Giuseppe and Elena about the bombs inside their bodies? What do I say to explain the command word I've memorized? The word that will end their unhappy lives: my sister's name._

He blinked away tears.

_Oh, Jess, forgive me for desecrating your beautiful name. Forgive me, though there is no reason to forgive. I'm just another human being who desperately wants to live just a little longer..._

**  
**The brief electronic chirp, then the voice of his ward, came through his Codec loud and clear. Sniffing, he set about to clearing his mind, refocusing his thoughts.

"Yeah, Giuseppe?"

"_Sensei_? It's about time."

His head bowed. There was a time to reminisce and a time to act. A time to kill– and to die. _In the rain. Thank you, Hemingway._ "Get in position. Commence commo blackout after this."

"_Haii."_

"And Giuseppe? Be careful."

"Yes, _Sensei_. You, too."

The Codec went silent.

He took one last look at the blackened sea. He couldn't see them yet. If he did, that meant they could see him, too, and– _well, such a nice life I had led._

They were there. Coming for him. His enemies. Children with bulletproof skin and cybernetically-enhanced musculature, armed with automatic weaponry, walking weapons. Cyborgs. Mechanical bodies. _Gunslinger Girls._

_Victims, all, you and I._

With that the man who once went by the name of Elde Talonn disappeared into the belly of the beast.

**  
**_Slowly the fated meeting is set. Soon the swordsman will meet the gunslinger girl. And then– _Next on _Life Goes On: **Battaglia**_** (Battle)**.


	14. Battaglia

**Life Goes On**

**  
****Disclaimer:**_ Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. Altheus and Liesel are courtesy Nachtsider. I 'own' my original characters Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito.

**  
****Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**  
****Fourteen**

**_Battaglia _(Battle)**

**  
**The two terrorists guarding the bridge died within seconds of each other, one's skull mostly disintegrated by a .50 caliber round while a smaller but no less lethal .300 Winchester Magnum bullet ripped open his companion's throat.

"Rifle One confirms kill at bridge," the Section Two sniper announced over the secure radio. He had just scored his fourteenth kill with his custom Arctic Warfare 50F rifle.

"My target's down, too." Rico searched for more targets through the powerful Picatinny rail-mounted thermal imager of her Barrett M82A1M "Light Fifty". She barely beat Rifle Two of Second Platoon with a tersely added "Missile man down."

"Snipers, check in."

"Rifle One, my scope's clean."

"Two, clean."

"Rico. No enemies in sight, Jean. Topside is cleared of hostiles."

"Confirmed topside is clear. Assault teams, you have a green light. Go! Go! Go!"

**  
**The first thing to break the sparkling black surface was the stubby barrel of a Mini Uzi. Beatrice's goggled head followed. Intent eyes scanned for nonexistent foes. She signaled "all clear" via blinker light before withdrawing the gas-powered grapple gun from her combat webbing, rhythmically kicking legs keeping her afloat.

Ten feet to her right, Liesel, Fio and four other Sparrow commandos aimed upwards. All seven grappling hooks hit their marks and secured well. The junior operatives and Sparrows clipped the grapple guns to their waist belts, ditched their oxygen tanks, and activated powerful motor winches that quickly pulled them up twenty feet.

The room they burst into was empty. Beatrice and Liesel stood guard outside the door while the Sparrows made way for the waiting seven-man Second Squad, First Platoon. Captain Gabriele Leopardi was the first Section One commando up.

"Welcome to the _Mirasol_, Captain," Fio greeted. The big man grinned back.

"Let's get this party started."

**  
**The Zodiac's muffled motor made little noise, lending to the attackers' stealth. Stealth was everything in their business; stealth, speed– which the rubber assault boat also had plenty, its quietly powerful engine putt-putting them towards their target– and lethality.

The three junior operatives and two handlers aboard the inflatable were expertly trained in the principle of IKO ("In-Kill-Out"). The five-member team's collective firepower was equal to a full platoon of conventional soldiers. Their combined skills and experience were equal to or better than any equivalent on the planet. They could be rightly said to be unstoppable.

Mireille Bouquet checked the safety of her MP-7 PDW (Personal Defense Weapon) and the four forty-round magazines in her FAG (Fast Action Gun) bag. Her big Walther P99 semiautomatic rode in a back holster. She looked over her teammates for what could be the last time she might do so, fixing their faces into her mind to somehow make them invincible.

As designated direct fire support man, Altheus lugged a rare Heckler & Koch G11 assault rifle. Its 4.73mm caseless rounds were capable of penetrating a cyborg's armored skin. Since Altheus was an excellent shot, it was deemed advantageous for him to carry the only true rifle-caliber weapon in the team. His sidearm was an Mk 23 Model 0 SOCOM chambered for the big .45 ACP round.

Henrietta's weapons mixed past and present, Giuseppe's influence and Mireille's training. While recovering her "classic" P90 submachine gun, with which she was mostly concurrent since it handled somewhat similar to her F2000 assault rifle, she also retained the Kahr MK40 as backup, superior to her old P239 or any of sisters-in-arms' handguns in terms of raw stopping power.

Not to say the other two junior intelligence agents were lightly armed. Triela toted her customary bayoneted 1897 Trench Shotgun plus an H&K P7M8 in a shoulder harness. Claes had an MP-7 plus her VP-70M, the pistol's trademark stock/holster discarded for easier use.

The smaller caliber pistols were loaded with hollow point bullets designed to blossom upon impact before fragmenting inside the target's body, causing more damage to soft tissue and organs. 4.6mm steel penetrator rounds went to the MP-7 SMGs; these, too, could punch through cyborg body armor. The lone shotgun's awesome killing power was upped at the last minute with military issue anti-personnel flechette shells that instantly shredded unarmored targets caught in its twenty feet deep cone of death.

Also tucked away in Triela's suit was a pair of Delta Force-issue heavy-duty steel slugs that could punch through more than an inch of appliqué steel. These two rounds were mentally labeled "do not use unless there is no choice, and make sure you aim damned well with them because they will go through most anything". Hillshire spared no expense for his partner.

Along with material burdens, everyone carried their own thoughts and dark doubts. Mireille wished for Kirika's presence even as Henrietta repeated her promise never to let her handler down. Triela silently bitched about her slowly abating pain, but thanked God that Hillshire was a good two miles away on shore, away from harm and out of her sight. Claes and Altheus thought on similar lines, completing the mission foremost on their minds. The girl also put away her eyeglasses and silently asked the ghost of her dead mentor to watch over her tonight.

Their beliefs only made them more determined to win.

The Zodiac reached the _Mirasol_'s side a few minutes later. Allied snipers had methodically cleared the upper deck of all hostile sentries. No alarm sounded. Yet the pressure that hounded them throughout their twenty-minute ride only built up.

Thrown grappling hooks secured, Henrietta, Triela and Claes agilely clambered up the ropes and onto the ship's deck in seconds. The three girls protectively fanned out as Mireille and Altheus hauled themselves up.

Once the senior agents joined them, the mechanical bodies proceeded at a brisk pace in a triangular combat spread, Triela leading the way, the adults close behind and ready to support. They expected but saw none of the decoys that the first wave of Army commandos encountered earlier. Neither did they see any enemies– yet.

**  
**Giuseppe huddled in one of the many dark corridors within the length of the Mirasol. He caught himself tapping his right thumb on the kukri's hilt– an affectation he slipped into when bored– and stopped it. His transparent orange wraparound visor displayed his battle costume and electronic equipment's current status as well as his physical body's condition.

Anticipating heavy combat, Rolito equipped his ward with a Ballistic Protection Suit. Built by Amalgam using existing technology (not everything was to be attributed to the Whispered), the wetsuit-like BPS was composed of special metallic alloy fibers with a tensile strength equal to that of steel, but the flexibility of silk. It served as an additional layer of protection alongside bulletproof ceramic forearm and shin guards plus Giuseppe's armored (proof versus up to 5.56mm AP rounds) skin.

Built into the BPS was an Electronic Camouflage System. This device was a scaled down version of the same equipment aboard aircraft and 3rd generation Arm Slaves like the M9 Gernsback. It used holographic projectors to cloak the wearer from visual sight and electronic sensors.

Basically, the ECS made Giuseppe invisible. Like that alien hunter from the Schwarz-something movie, the one his sensei mentioned every now and then when describing the suit's capabilities, an apt comparison.

_Predator._

The ECS did have problems. Chief was that it couldn't keep up with rapid movement. Once its wearer started running or moving quickly, a barely visible shimmer manifested to betray its presence. This was because the holographic projectors were unable to completely compensate for constantly shifting body motion.

Also, the device could only operate for ten minutes straight before overheating. In fact, after just five minutes, the BPS turned into a compact sauna. The operator's sweating would further interfere with the stealth.

Five minutes was enough. Giuseppe decided to play it safe. Three or four minutes at the longest, the ECS activated shortly before engaging the enemy or to cover a retreat.

His battle plan maximized his advantages of stealth, speed and unpredictability. Stay out of site. Draw the enemy in. Attack at extremely close range, where their guns were at a disadvantage. Take them by surprise. Whittle down their numbers. Kill the rest as quickly as possible. Retreat if needed. Rinse and repeat.

Primary targets: enemy cyborgs. The official Section One term was "junior intelligence agents". Whatever their names, they were definitely formidable opponents.

Rolito assured Giuseppe that the poisons lacing his thrown blades would work. _"They still have blood, organs and a nervous system. Your targets will drop dead soon enough." _Just that his knives– maybe even the heavy kukri– might not penetrate the durable carbon compound material that made up their skin.

Earlier hypothetical scenarios and stolen data showed that Section Two's "dolls" were built tough– tougher than Giuseppe, the boy was surprised to hear, though he had the edge on agility due his superior Black Tech cybernetics. His BPS armor gave him greater protection, but his weapons were lacking in turn. Unless he got lucky and hit an eye –and then only if his target didn't have armored eyelids like his own–, a junior agent was a hard kill.

Giuseppe wished Rolito taught him to use a gun. Not a pistol or rifle. A grenade launcher, maybe. Or a bazooka. Something that could blow up tanks at long range. Overkill, surely; but infinitely preferable to death. His sensei would understand. The man was a firm believer in firepower despite his penchant and skill for bladed weaponry.

_If wishes were horses–_ _why worry?_ His weapons were the best of their class, maybe even better than guns. _You couldn't lace bullets with poison, now, could you?_ Nine millimeter might make neat little holes in body, but his kukri could chop through wood and bone easy, especially with his superhuman arm power driving the big war knife.

Anyway, back to the plan. Once he destroyed several enemy units, Giuseppe was to rejoin Rolito at their preplanned rendezvous point on deck. They would escape through a rather risky but definitely unexpected and assuredly bombastic manner: typically Rolito.

Their CRG allies were to fend for themselves. No reason to lose sleep over cannon fodder. What few prisoners would be captured could reveal nothing. As far as the terrorists knew, Rolito was a weapons dealer from Taiwan, "Colonel Daren", sent to test a new weapons system against Section Two.

Anyway, Giuseppe didn't like them. Especially Patricio. The man was too arrogant for his own good. Giuseppe was wary of overconfident men. The trait always got people killed.

Sensors told him he faced two separate groups attacking from both ends of the _Mirasol_. Half a dozen cyborgs. Twice that number of "conventionals", mostly at the rear. As usual, he was outnumbered and outgunned.

But he had cutting-edge technology, unshakeable confidence and the best teacher in the world on his side. Giuseppe knew he would win.

He waited for Rolito. The boy wondered what was taking his sensei so long.

**  
**"You _what_?"

Rolito possessed extensive experience with human stupidity. He would be the first to plead guilt to a good number of patently insane stunts back in his youth. Having rediscovered a once-ignored common sense and carrying plenty of scars from too many close scraps with death, he believed himself wiser now, more mature and level-headed. In short: he was getting old.

Wisdom came with age. Neither were assets of one Patricio belonging to the Covenant Reformation Group, a young Northern hothead who had just endangered the entire mission with his boastful admission.

"Let me get this straight." Rolito talked quickly now, the better to retake control of the rapidly degenerating situation. "You planted **bombs** on this ship?"

"Six of them." The bastard even had the gall to grin. "Half a pound of C4 each, with a timer set to explode at midnight."

_One and a half hours from now_, Rolito calculated. "Where are they placed?"

"None of your business, old man."

A graying eyebrow twitched. "Where are the bombs placed?" the man in black repeated.

"Don't be daft," another terrorist countered. "We're here to blow this ship up, right?"

He almost screamed in anger. Then he remembered it was his own fault his allies misunderstood the exact specifics of his mission. So Rolito calmed himself down and began reasoning with someone who obviously thought with his dick and balls instead of his brain.

"No. Let me tell you what we are here for. We are here to eliminate Section Two's mechanical bodies. Understand? If you blow this ship up, every human being on this planet will revile you and your descendants for eternity. And every commando, cyborg or otherwise, this side of the Mediterranean will come looking for your ass."

"Well, they can't find us if no one tells them where we are now, eh?"

Rolito staggered. As if he had been stabbed in the back and the killing knife twisted into him for extra effect. But then his demeanor changed. His posture relaxed. His eyes narrowed as if sleepy. And his frown morphed into a wickedly amused smirk.

"What was that?" he **mewled**. "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm just reminding you of your place, old man." Patricio was too arrogant to notice the drastic change in the man's personality. "You're just here to take care of the robot kids. We're here to make a statement to the enemies of Christ."

"Truly, now. A statement? To the enemies of our Lord Savior, too. Most eloquent. I grant you that." He even bowed. His cheery smile and airy words betrayed nothing: fear, concern, hatred or coldness.

Rolito went through his Order Of Battle. Four men, Patricio included. Three armed with AKs– the 74, thankfully; the 5.56mm rounds with less armor penetrating power than the older 47's 7.26mm, so there was a smaller chance of a stray bullet holing some important part of the ship that would blow up everything to kingdom come.

A pair of riflemen, one injured in the leg and so distracted, flanked Rolito. The third kept an eye outside the door. _Easy kill; save him for last._

His most immediate threat, Patricio himself, waved a Beretta around while declaiming. The model type was unrecognizable and unimportant. It was just a gun, its bearer just another victim.

_The longer I spend dealing with these bozos, the longer Giuseppe fights those girls alone…_

He felt his kindness slip away. He let it flee, knew it would return in due time. In its place he welcomed a darker creation from the depths of his nightmares, heartless, bloodthirsty by accident yet loving it, the being inherited from a friend long dead.

_Thanks, Masakari. Take over now, my darling. Make it quick, please. Someone is waiting for the Cavalry._

Patricio was ranting about "how it was high time the government pigs and the old men in the Vatican realized just **who** had the will of God on their side" when Rolito interrupted him.

"Your bombs– did Franco and Franca graced you with their precious timers?"

"What?" His former underling took seconds to recover from the rather flowery question and think up an answer. "Don't shit me. I can make better triggers than them."

"So you do arts and handicrafts on the side. But what if one of them blows up early?"

"No way will that happen. Besides, I know where my bombs are. I can get them now if I want to."

"Thank you. That was all I wanted to know."

**  
**In his mind's eye, a pool of absolute black rippled once.

Daggers hidden inside sweater's sleeves dropped into waiting hands. Rolito grinned.

And the killing began early.

**  
**Triela had yet to start. Twenty minutes of search-and-destroy produced not one terrorist appeared. Not even a single decoy like the ones earlier reported by the Army.

The lack of targets frustrated the blonde. She so badly wanted to shoot someone, to unload her bodily pain into someone else via a cloud of killer darts. _Even that terrorist mechanical body would do–_

"Triela? Are you okay?"

Henrietta's anxious query bolted her out of her misery. "I'm fine!" To prove it, she hastened her march, biting down on her lip and pain, less guarded.

"Don't get too far ahead," Claes warned from behind.

"I know what I'm doing!"

**  
**Hearing footsteps, Giuseppe switched his ECS on. The stealth system blanketed him in warmth and invisibility. He quit breathing.

_Three cyborgs. Talking with each other._ He recognized the name "Triela". _Shotgun or assault rifle._ _Who are the others?_

**  
**Triela gave the corridor an once-over. Nothing seemed to be out of place. She peered some more. The _Mirasol_'s still-running machinery degraded her usually potent ears. Her period added to her distraction.

**  
**He saw them now. "Point/Shotgun" was Triela. Submachine guns on the other two girls. Line formation. Wise.

His dart launcher wasn't going to be useful in a head-on attack. He changed plans.

Close in. Kill Triela first. Shove her dead body into the middle girl (the dark-haired one; Claes, he now remembered) to immobilize the latter. Kill the rearmost (Henrietta, was that her name?) with a knife to the eye while she was distracted. Finish Claes.

_Come on. Come closer. Don't spot me yet. What was that saying of sensei's? Ah. "Come into my home, said the spider to the fly…"_

**  
**Satisfied, Triela signaled all clear. She stalked forward, shotgun ready for the first sign of trouble. Still no enemies.

_Where the hell was the enemy?_

**  
**_Now!_

He rushed them. Any noise he made now would help in confusing his targets for just a few more precious seconds.

Giuseppe swung his kukri at Triela's head–

**  
**Despite Triela's signal, Claes didn't quite feel right. _Something's wrong. What was that word?_

She knew this feeling well, felt it many times already. Her tampered memory failed to present the exact image she so badly wanted. But the fragmented account she unearthed months ago, cryptic paragraphs scattered here and there inside various books that once belonged to _him_, the whole of which she reconstructed– _they_ were recent memories embedded into her mind through rote repetition and troubled dreams. They held the key to her being.

They were her.

Fish. Fishing. Fishing rod.

**  
**_"Some fish are pretty clever. They have a very slight touch. You'd never notice them nibbling at your bait. What you do, then, is tune up our sensitivity. Feel the line and rod. **Be** one with it. At the slightest, unnatural shift, wait a little, let him get confident. And then– hah! Reel it in!"_

**  
**Claes sucked in her breath. **_Sir Raballo!_**

Footsteps. The three junior agents froze, their weapons raised. No one was there.

_Wait!_ The air ahead of them shimmered. Claes might have missed it had she blinked. Certainly Triela did.

_The fish took the bait. But _we_ are the fish…_

She grabbed Triela by the suit collar and jerked her backwards.

"Hey, what's–"

**  
**The kukri's tip swished within millimeters of baby blue eyes.

**  
**Giuseppe started. _I missed!_

**  
**Claes couldn't fire. Not flat on her back, Triela in the way, the blonde sprawled on her MP-7 when they went down in a tangle of limbs. Not exactly the most brilliant plan she'd come up with, on second thought.

But the Trench Shotgun was up. Reflex, training and a healthy dose of surprise and fear took over. Triela pulled the trigger–

**  
**The shotgun's thunderous report soudded right next to his head. Giuseppe staggered into a wall as if punched. The metal bulkheads rang from a hundred metal-tipped darts. So did his head. Or did it? He couldn't hear anything through one ear.

_I'm deaf…_

**  
**The roar startled Henrietta. She saw her teammates down, Triela's shotgun smoking, a bulkhead dented by lots of tiny metal-tipped darts.

Then she saw it: the unnatural glistening in the corridor ahead, like looking through a curtain of oil-water.

"Henrietta!" Perhaps the first time she heard Claes desperate. "Shoot!"

Obediently, Henrietta aimed at the middle of that shimmering mass and cut loose.

**  
**He didn't hear the yelled command. But he did partially hear the "tearing canvas" sound of automatic weapons fire and fully felt the latter's effect, the bulk of twenty or so 5.7mm AP bullets smacking him back. _They can see me? But the ECS–_

Another of Rolito's lessons slammed into his head like a bullet: never completely trust the lab weenies. _"It isn't their asses on the line."_ And: _"Don't panic."_

Giuseppe held his free arm up to protect his vulnerable face. Bullets ricocheted off ceramic and high-tech fiber. At least his armor worked better than his invisibility.

He found himself sweating profusely. Startled, Giuseppe noticed only then the flashing red light on his visor. _The ECS is overheating!_

**  
**Claes was pleased to see the shimmer turn into a vaguely human outline. She tried to get Triela's weight off her, thought better of it. Doing so would only block Henrietta's aim. Instead: "'Etta! Aim upwards! Hit his head!"

**  
**Already he was materializing into an identifiable target. Yelling made it through his lifting deafness. "–upwards! Hit his head!"

The shooter obliged with effect. Two bullets bounced off Giuseppe's hand. Five clipped his arm. Giuseppe spat out a word that would have shocked Elena.

He'd lost the element of surprise, was fast losing his technological advantage. Outnumbered and outgunned, with the range too close– there was no way he could win this.

"_Discretion is the better part of valor. So: run like hell!"_

A precious moment before the damaged ECS failed, Giuseppe sprinted down the corridor he came from, ripping away his visor and dropping it.

**  
**No more time for doubt. She saw the enemy now: a black-clad figure facing away from her, body bent low to protect his vulnerable head. He was running away.

_He tried to kill Triela. He would have tried to kill Claes and me._

The crime was heinous, a mortal sin. The sentence: death.

Still firing, Henrietta pursued. The P90 rattled empty. She reloaded on the fly, firing short bursts to harry her target, not pausing.

**  
**"I think I need to wring my underwear dry." Triela regarded Claes with wonderment. "Thanks, Claes. You saved my life there."

"No problem. Let's follow Henrietta."

"Roger that." The blonde let her buddy take the lead. The corridor soon split into three. No clue as to which one Henrietta took.

"At least he could have left a trail of bread or something," Triela grumbled. "We'll split, then?"

"Take the left. I'll take the right."

"I hope one of us is right." Triela was warier now, having cheated Death by a hair's breadth. Again she wondered where Mireille was. _She said it would only take a moment_…

**  
**It was the sum of all their fears. Mireille swallowed. She hated the things, preferred a gun or a knife for killing, controlled and precise and relatively neat. Nothing like **this** monstrosity…

"I've got it," Altheus assured. Then the age old question: _red or blue?_

The bomb steadily ticked away. One hour fifteen seconds left.

**  
**The two terrorists guarding the engine room put up a serious fight. Heavy gunfire pinned down Second Platoon. "Shit!" one of them hissed. "These guys are using real slugs!"

"Take them alive if you can," the hurriedly approaching Fio radioed.

"Lovely order," a second commando groused.

The hitherto wordless Beatrice turned to him."Cover me."

Then, surprising both her allies and enemies, she rushed the terrorists head-on. Everyone actually stopped firing to stare.

"Cover fire!" Leopardi, the first to recover, yelled. Six M16A2s simultaneously roared over the insane-seeming junior intelligence agent. Rubber bullets pinged off metal. Both terrorists flinched– and forgot about Beatrice, now going into a baseball slide beneath their badly-aimed bullets.

She didn't. Coming to a stop on her back not five feet from their feet, Beatrice put a quick two-second burst into each terrorist's leg. The two men screamed and toppled, their leg bones fractured by 8mm bullets.

Beatrice kicked away their AKs before getting up. Her Mini Uzi remained locked on a spot in between them, ready to put a bullet in either or both men's foreheads.

Leopardi stormed over. "Damn it, girl!" If she was one of his men– then the rest of the Platoon would have to buy him a round of beers in the post-mission booze fest. "You could at least give me a head's up if you were going to pull a crazy stunt like that!" he fumed.

The girl's answer was to tip her head slightly. Leopardi shook his head but grinned. "Crazy dolls." It was a compliment.

Fio and a pair of escorts arrived within minutes, having dispatched Liesel and her remaining Sparrows to sweep the levels around and below the bridge. One of her guards carried a med kit.

"Good job, people," she told Beatrice and second Platoon before switching to the radio. "Jean, Fio. The engine room is secure as well." Holstering her Magnum, she turned to the nearest prisoner. "Where are the bombs?"

"Go to hell, bitch of the devil!"

Having dealt with prisoners many times before, Fio was unruffled by the insult. Leopardi, however, took offence for her. He hauled the recalcitrant terrorist up by the man's shirt to clap a meaty hand over his mouth. Then he grabbed the wounded leg, shoved his fingers into the wound and twisted. His hand stifled the scream.

"Lieutenant!" the horrified Fio exclaimed. Leopardi ignored her. He let the man's partner watch his buddy suffer for a long thirty seconds before withdrawing bloody fingers from the mangled wound. He waited thirty seconds more, took his hand off the man's mouth as well. Spent, the scream had tapered off into a low moan.

"Oh, my God," the untouched terrorist moaned. His partner looked to be dead.

"This is against the Geneva Conventions," Fio hotly complained. "There was no call for this!"

Beatrice quietly stood beside the disgusted Sparrow officer. Her Mini Uzi was still aimed at him. There was no pity in her eyes. She terrified him more than the sight of his tortured, half-dead partner.

"Where are the bombs?" Leopardi rumbled.

"No bombs! We didn't bring any bombs!"

"I don't believe you." He took a threatening step towards him, gesticulating with his bloodied hand. The horrified terrorist stumbled over his own words.

"I swear to God! The guy who brought us here didn't want any bombs! He just wanted to get at your robot kids! Please don't kill me, I'm telling the truth!"

"**Lieutenant!" **Fio put herself squarely between the murderous Leopardi and the second terrorist. "There's no need for this barbarism! I'll handle the interrogation! You go and sweep the area!"

For a moment, Leopardi looked like he was about to get over her case. Fio stared him down. Then, very slowly and definitely displeased, he nodded. "As you wish, **Captain**." He turned away– and, face away from their prisoner, finally smirked.

_Slick, Master Sergeant, very slick…_

He bellowed for First Platoon to follow him. Fio ordered her medic to treat their prisoner's wound while she questioned him further.

"How many cyborgs do you have?"

"Just one that I've seen. A boy. He always wears a ski mask. He's somewhere belowdeck right now; I don't know where, exactly. The guy in charge of him, some old-looking guy dressed in black, didn't want to tell us. Security reasons, he said. He didn't trust us."

_I wonder why? _"But the cyborgh is there? What's he armed with?"

"Swords. Some huge sword and a bunch of knives." He sucked in his breath as the medic taped his wounded leg close. "Maybe he has some other stuff that I didn't see. His boss has a Japanese sword and maybe a bunch of daggers."

"Go on." To Beatrice: "Keep an eye out. That enemy cyborg might come for us."

"Roger."

**  
**_"Time to save bullets,"_ the calm, professional voice advised, seeing her magazine was half empty, only one extra clip left. She complied, firing occasionally, keeping up the pace.

A thrown dagger whizzed towards her eye. _"There was a girl named Chloe…" _She ducked and kept running.

Henrietta didn't fight alone. Though far away, her handler's words and advice guided her in battle. Mireille kept her alive.

_Let's go, Miss Mireille!_

**  
**Giuseppe cursed. His pursuer was good. Throwing knives over his shoulder didn't even slow her. But her well-aimed bullets kept clipping him, though the BPS withstood the assault. _So far._

Now the gun was silent. _Was she low on ammunition?_

The throbbing no longer bothered him. He still wobbled a bit, the delicate natural liquid gyroscope inside his ears still disturbed, but his hearing had returned to normal. He trusted himself combat capable again.

Fleeing wouldn't do. He needed to retake the initiative, to end the chase and kill his hunter. Then he could double back and take out at least one more mechanical body before calling it quits.

"_Pursuit makes the enemy confident. It lowers his guard, breaks his concentration. Let the hunter become the hunted. Lead him as long as you need to." Rolito decisively sheathed his katana. "Then cut his legs off when he least expects it."_

_Come on,_ he silently goaded his stalker, speeding up, dodging left and right forcing her to improvise_. Come after me. Keep running. Don't slow down or you'll lose me. Come on! Hurry!_

_Now: make a stand!_

Skidding to a halt, Giuseppe spun around, willing his enemy to come to him.

**  
**She felt it coming. That decisive moment that would settle this running battle. As if she could touch her enemy and know what was in his mind.

_Come on. Come on! Hurry!_

Her pulse raced. Her pace quickened. _If I fall behind– I can't fall behind!_

"_HENRIETTA! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?"_

Startled, she almost tripped. But Mireille's voice turned gentle, soothing.

"_Take your time. Don't close in too much. Don't play the enemy's game. Don't let him lead you."_

_Miss Mireille…_

Henrietta braked– fifteen feet distant from her suddenly stopped target, out of his sword's lethal range. His throwing knives didn't matter. She brought the P90 to bear on his head. There was no way she could miss.

_Got you!_

**  
**He bared his teeth in challenge. _Not quite perfect– but I'll take you with me, if nothing else._

Giuseppe lunged forward.

**  
**Henrietta's world stopped.

**  
**"Giuseppe…"

**  
**_**Life Goes On.** Be reborn._

_If we unknowing meet again,_

_**I don't want to lose you a second time.** But_

_**Life Goes On. **In this era,_

_As long as I am given life,_

_I catch it with these arms and this chest._

_Believe in love._

**  
**_They were enemies, weapons. They shouldn't feel. But she asked, "Can't enemies feel for each other when they can?" _Next on **_Life Goes On_**: Palpare **(Feel)**.


	15. Palpare

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. Altheus and Liesel are owned by Nachtsider. I 'own' my OCs Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**  
Fifteen**

**_Palpare _(Feel)**

"Giuseppe."

He froze. _No…_

It was happening yet again. Once more he saw that Section One commando. He remembered the shock in the eyes of an experienced warrior at the impossibility confronted. Terror at the face of the dead visited.

All that while, the victim frightened his killer far more.

_I'm not dead. I'm not the man you called for. I don't know you. I don't know the Giuseppe you are talking about. You're dead. Stay dead. Stop haunting me._

_I am alive. I am me!_

_Am I?_

**  
**And now this girl did the same to him.

She was younger than him than a year and reached up only to his shoulders. The dark blue school uniform amplified her youth. Red-brown hair and brown eyes were a strange mix but fit her luminous face. All in all she was rather cute.

She also had a FN P90 submachine gun aimed at his face, the 5.7mm bullets decidedly lethal to even him at this range.

He knew her. Henrietta._ "One of the most effective operatives in the Agency,"_ the report said Her handler's name was Giuseppe. _We have the same name? Is that why she called my name out?_

She held his life in her hands. She was a child, yes, younger than him, but also a remorseless killer– again, like him. She was the one who shot at him earlier, forcing him to flee, running him down. Now he stared at the muzzle of her weapon. Practically point blank range, he couldn't block or dodge. He was rooted in place by the deepest astonishment and horror.

All she needed was to pull the trigger.

_Do it,_ a dark, self-destructive part of him urged. _Shoot me…_

**  
**Henrietta stared.

Giuseppe crouched threateningly before her.

He was dead. Mireille told her that. More so, **he** told her in not so straightforward but far more heartfelt a manner than even her new handler– whom she loved for her own unique qualities– could never hope to match. Only in her dreams could she still see him, talk with him, though every day she lived was an expression of her love for him.

But this was no dream. A nightmare, perhaps; but she was awake and alive in this one.

So was this Giuseppe, her Giuseppe.

No. Not quite. His hair was cut shorter and styled differently. His eyes were bright blue instead of gray. And he was far younger. Not much older than herself. And **her**Giuseppe hated knives, said so once upon a fairy tale age long gone. **He** wouldn't use an ugly weapon like the one so lightly grasped in his right hand, stopped in mid-curve.

These and so many other minute details that, combined together, were compelling evidence. This boy was **not** her Giuseppe.

But he looked and felt so much like **him**. More so, herself. He struck her as kind despite his stance and sword and motives. _(Like me.)_ His eyes said so. _(Like mine.)_ She couldn't help but whisper his name aloud.

"Giuseppe."

His pause, hesitation and recognition painted on his face, told her she was right. His name was Giuseppe.

But he wasn't **her** Giuseppe.

She didn't know what to make of this apparition. Giuseppe was dead. _Then who is this? A fake?_ Anger burned quick and hot inside of her; she almost pulled the trigger. (Strange that the boy's eyes longed for her to do just that.) _How dare they defile my Giuseppe's name and face!_

_But… if he is a fake, how did they know what he looked like? And why not make him look exactly like him? Why the differences?_

_What should I do?_

Her finger hung over the trigger but did not tense. Indeed she might have toppled if a slight wind chose to sweep through the corridor. Her focus lost, her guard lowered. So did her gun barrel.

**  
**"Don't!"

The boy's sudden declaration stopped her. Saved her. The P90 rising mistrustfully once more, her finger paused again.

"Don't." He spoke low and cold, as hostile as possible. "Don't put your gun away. And don't call my name out like you know me. You don't know me. I don't know you." A lie, technically; but reading file reports didn't constitute knowing a person. _Did it?_ Of course it didn't. "We're strangers. No; more than that, we're **enemies**. You came here to kill me. It's the same here with me."

She didn't answer, didn't have the words she needed. He spoke for her, for the both of them.

"I," Giuseppe softly, lethally stated, "Am going to walk– no; run towards you and try to kill you. You should be prepared to defend yourself and try to kill me. Do you understand? You will kill me, or I will kill you. One of us must die for the other to survive. That is our mission. So get ready."

There was no compact between killers, after all; only grimly mutual understanding and bloody death from which only one would emerge– if any of them won.

_Then why did you talk to her? Why warn her? Egg her to fight you? You could have killed her in that moment where she lowered her gun. This isn't an honorable duel. This is war. Anything goes._

_Why, then, did you let her live?_

He didn't know. He was almost relieved to see that small face harden, felt her tense. _So I don't sound like her handler, but only look like him? That's enough._ He did the same, could do no less lest he insult both himself and his opponent.

**  
**One last hesitation gripped Henrietta. "Is your name really Giuseppe?" she asked.

**  
**Again the deadlock caught them both. Giuseppe wanted to lie, to say no. But he couldn't deny who he was.

"I'm not the person you know." He gathered himself anew. "If you hold that name, that person, so dearly, you **will** kill me for what I am **not**."

And then the girl did something that truly frightened him.

**  
**Henrietta smiled.

"I understand." _I really do, Giuseppe. And I'm very sorry I have to kill you._

**  
**No more hesitation. Enough thought. Giuseppe attacked.

**  
**Altheus reviewed the bomb. The detonator and timer were crudely done, suggesting its maker's inexperience. That was both good and bad: good, because it wasn't as nasty as one made by Franco and Franca, say; bad, because a badly-made bomb was still dangerous if left alone long enough.

Decided, he cut the red wire. The timer stopped.

Altheus waited for fifteen seconds before releasing his breath explosively. _How many more of these things are there?_

**  
**Now **this** was something to be pleased about. Patricio, dumb zealot nut that he was, planted most of his bombs relatively close. Rolito counted three disarmed and stowed inside his handy dandy duffel bag. According to sensor readings (he wore a visor similar to Giuseppe's), one of Section Two's attacking elements found a fourth.

_They're probably defusing it. Considering how this joker sucks at making bombs, it's a no-brainer. So that leaves two more_._ Not bad…_

Because he didn't trust his prisoner, Patricio's arms were tied behind his back. Rolito also made the man march ahead as a human shield. He was sure his ex-ally was sufficiently persuaded not to make a stupid move. Rendering three armed men into soup stock instantly converted any unbeliever to the tenets of Rolito's "god": Death.

**  
**_In his mind's eye, a pool of absolute black rippled once._

_Daggers hidden inside the sleeves of his sweater dropped into his hands. Rolito smiled._

_And the killing began early._

_Almost lazily he thrust his left hand upwards. The dagger cut into Patricio's hand, the one with the gun, making him drop the weapon. A vital artery on the wrist, nicking which would cause quick death through blood loss, was intentionally spared. Rolito needed him alive– for now._

_He kicked Patricio in the stomach, knocking the terrorist onto his butt. Spun around to bury the throwing knives into the nearest two guards' faces, killing them where they stood. He dashed past the falling dead, rushed the third terrorist. The katana, still sheathed, appeared in his left hand, held low in his sword school's traditional running iajitsu stance. He tapped the AK's muzzle aside with his sword's hilt before the blade that bore his beloved's name hissed out of its scabbard to gut the rifleman open across his stomach with a single stroke._

_The terrorist screamed but once, catching his own purplish innards in his hands, before Masakari stabbed through his heart and abruptly twisted, ending his pain– and his life._

_Rolito breathed hard as he pulled his katana free. His chest and limbs burned from the brief assault. _I'm out of shape_, he grimly critiqued, using a silk towel to wipe away the sheen of blood coating Masakari's length_. And old.

But didn't that feel good?

Yeah! Damn hell it did!

_He froze Patricio, who was reaching for his gun, in place with an offhand glance. "Who the hell are you?" the terrified Northerner whimpered._

"_Noir."_

_Patricio's eyes bulged._

_Rolito loved the sheer genius of it. It was so good to strike fear into the heart of the lesser. "Now, where were your bombs, again?" He added a genial "Please."_

**  
**Patricio halted. "It's there." He gestured with his eyes to a spot between some machinery.

The suspicious Rolito intently studied his prisoner's face. "Okay." A sideways glance– and there it was, lying in a corner. The bomb's timer blinked steadily. "Number four. Good."

The assassin knelt and reached in for it. That saved his life.

A girl materialized not fifteen feet away to their right. She was armed with an MP-7.

_Oh, fuck_, both men realized. It was the last thought for one.

**  
**Liesel saw two people, one of them kneeling behind machinery. Automatically she fired a burst into the closer, standing target's chest, killing him instantly before shifting aim.

The black Nike duffel bag stood very still in her gun's iron sights.

**  
**Back on his feet after an initial stumble, Rolito ran for his life. He silently cursed his complacency and bad luck in assorted languages, ending with a massive _"Putang-ina!"_

_But who'd have thought of it? Walking into a goddamned mechanical body? You're lucky to be alive! By the way: keep running. As fast as you can. Sustain it, lungs and legs, or you'll be fucking dead quicker than you realize._

_At least she'll probably go for the bomb. You _did _leave the bag there. Smart. Okay, not smart. You were fucking frightened out of your fucking wits. Six pounds of high explosive deadweight is not going to help you beat the Olympic million meter dash record._

_By the way, are you still running? Good._

**  
**Normally Liesel would have pursued. But the encounter's strangeness suggested caution. Checking the abandoned bag's contents confirmed her decision as correct. She radioed in a situation report, making special note of the way the dead man's arms were bound behind the back, and asked for reinforcements.

A pair of First Platoon troopers arrived shortly. Liesel found the bomb in the meantime. Disarming it (Altheus trained her in the delicate task) took less than four minutes She added it to the three others already in the bag. Also defused, she noted to her puzzlement.

_Counting the one Altheus reported, this makes five_. _How many are left?_

**  
**_One. _The physically spent Rolito sprawled against the wall as he greedily sucked in air. _Far enough,_ he hoped. He didn't think he could run anymore. _I'm really getting too old for this shit…_

_One bomb left. One is always enough._

He punched the wall in frustration. _I'm so sorry, Giuseppe. You'll have to be on your own for a little longer…_

**  
**Giuseppe lunged. He swung his kukri at Henrietta's head, aiming to shatter the armored skull and smash into her brain. With near-equal speed and intent, Henrietta parried with her left forearm. (_I'm sorry, Miss Mireille!)_ The kukri bit deep into carbon-compound skin and artificial muscles before titanium reinforced bone stopped it.

Not feeling the strike at all, the junior agent powerfully twisted her arm to the right, yanking the kukri out of Giuseppe's hands to clatter twenty feet away. Henrietta shoved her P90 into Giuseppe's lower torso and emptied her last clip in retaliation.

At close range and hitting roughly the same area, the last few AP-tipped rounds managed to pierce the battered BPS, puncturing carbon compound armor/skin. Damage reports flowed across his visor even as his stomach burned. Giuseppe staggered back.

His suit's life support system entered the battle. Belt-mounted pods injected quick-acting dopamine and adrenaline into his body, the former drug canceling out most of his pain with a surge of "feel-good", the latter spurring his aggressiveness.

Roaring, Giuseppe swatted aside the submachine gun and tackled Henrietta.

The two mechanical bodies toppled, Henrietta dropping the expended P90 in the impact. Giuseppe straddled her in a ground infighting position. Keeping her down, he found one of his poison-tipped throwing knives, flipped it point down and stabbed at an open eye.

Henrietta caught the descending wrist in time, stopping the needlepoint a few centimeters above her right eye. Gritting her teeth, she slowly pushed upwards before suddenly wrenching her attacker's wrist aside in the disarming technique Mireille taught her. Her counter move caused Giuseppe to drop the knife, which bounced off her forehead and away. She gritted past his follow-up backhand to her face and drove her knee hard in between his legs.

No painkiller or cybernetic hardening in the world could deaden that terrific pain. Giuseppe instantly buckled. Henrietta shoved the incapacitated boy off and kicked him hard in the groin again, then twice in the head. Catching sight of the kukri, she made a quick beeline for the discarded weapon.

Recognizing his danger despite his pain, Giuseppe desperately hooked an arm around Henrietta's closer ankle and wrenched hard, tripping the girl on her face. His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he realized he could see right up her skirt.

Distracted by a glimpse of forbidden white, he took a kick to his blushing face, Henrietta not noticing his "heinous" deed or having any compunction about modesty in the heat of battle. Giuseppe managed to get his left arm up to deflect the next kick before rolling away, the better to get away from the girl's powerful, kicking legs and things he'd rather not see if he could help it.

Both cyborgs got back on their feet. A slugfest like no other commenced. They forgot all their hand-to-hand training or the Kahr pistol strapped behind Henrietta's waist. No dodging, no fancy moves, just a brutal face-to-face exchange of hammer blows to the head and body that staggered the combatants into steel walls, only to bounce right, fists flailing. The razor balance of victory wildly swung this way and that with total abandon.

Giuseppe breathed hard for the first time since he was cyborged. So did Henrietta– as she decked her opponent into a bulkhead with a lucky straight to his jaw.

His vision grayed. Giuseppe blinked to clear his eyesight when his legs suddenly gave way. He dropped.

A fist rang upon the metal behind his head a heartbeat earlier. Henrietta's arm jerked aside, her punch so strong that it actually did her damage. She was briefly open to attack.

Almost out of reflex alone, Giuseppe put all his strength into his left arm. He clotheslined Henrietta across the throat.

(Irrationally he noted his sensei would laugh his head off to see a professional wrestling move straight out of TV actually work in real-life combat against a cyborg.)

The terrific attack would have decapitated a human being. Henrietta practically bounced off the steel floor. Giuseppe kept her down, straddling her to rain blows upon her face with his good hand, bruising that pretty face blue-black. Her retaliation was ineffective and quickly weakening. Still he punched her again and again, hating himself for having to rough a girl like this but doing it anyway because his life depended on it.

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry… Just stop fighting and die already!_

As if she heard his mental plea-command, Henrietta went limp, her inhuman resilience finally overcome. Giuseppe spared himself a quick exhale of relief. He pulled out another knife. The red hilt told him it was one of the few that weren't coated with poison or drugs.

_That was a tough fight._

He felt her stir slightly beneath him. Giuseppe grasped Henrietta's face with his free hand and pried her right eyelid open, exposing the vulnerable eyeball through which the brain could be attacked.

**  
**She breathed weakly. She couldn't move for the life of her. Her thoughts were scattered and light. The continuous sledgehammer-like strikes to her face had accomplished a historical first, succeeding where countless bullets had failed: daze her into helplessness.

Her mind screamed to keep fighting. All the despair and fear and rage within her small body, the side that had gone berserk all too many times, fought for release, ripped and tore against her paralysis. Slowly she regained control of her limbs. Slowly she burned through the pain and came conscious once more.

_Fight. Fight. Fight! Or else you're going to die!_

_Again, _whispered a small, softer voice, that of a little girl missing right arm and left leg and eye and family, who wanted to die: she from so long ago. _I will die again…_

Anger sputtered into silence. Everything drained from her body save that tingly, distant feeling of knowing something but never being able to say it out loud.

In her daydream, a handsome figure held his arms out in loving welcome. _Giuseppe.** My**_ _Giuseppe. At last, we'll be together again. Forever…_

In her mind's eye, the beautiful blonde woman glanced over a smooth shoulder to smile warmly. _Miss Mireille. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry– and goodbye…_

Henrietta cried.

**  
**The knife plunged down.

**  
**In his makeshift "command room", Rolito quickly prepared the entire electronics suite for destruction, lest Section Two be able to divulge any clue to Amalgam's presence here. _Waste of good computers. Well, they're not on **my** salary._

Now and then he tried contacting Giuseppe. All he heard was white noise, static. _Jamming?_ His brief laugh was grim and self-damning. _Of course they'd learn from the last time. They're good. I **knew** I should've gone after the support crews outside the apartment ell when we first took on Section One._

_You call yourself a student of history, and yet in the end you suffer the same victory disease you've preached against?_

He shrugged._ Giuseppe knows the extraction plan. I'll wait. Meanwhile, I've one last service to the human race._

**  
**"Sir?" Inside the spacious Section Two/Sparrow mobile command trailer, one of Fio's technicians gestured to Jean. "You might want to listen to this."

**  
"Hi! I assume I am speaking to Section Two's electronic warfare team? By the way: congratulations on countering my jammers and jamming me. You're very good.**

"**Now listen closely. There are six bombs on the ship. You've defused one and captured three more. That leaves two more. I would have gotten to the fifth if you guys didn't shoot up my guide and cut me off from it. I leave that and the last bomb to you. Here are the coordinates for that sixth bomb…"**

**  
**Rolito added, "This is not a trap. You've managed to kill or capture the whole CRG group, so don't worry about shoot-outs– unless, of course, you run into my two Terminator buddies." A lie, that last, but necessary. No use giving the enemy **too** much confidence. "If so, tough luck, I know what you feel.

"Anyway, I hope you get that last bomb before it blows up– which is in about thirty minutes and counting. Good luck to you guys."

He hit the Stop button, rewound the entire sound file and set the last operational laptop to continuously repeat the message. "Good luck," he muttered, triggering his own ECS, disappearing from sight like the ghost he was.

**  
**"We're there," Mireille said immediately.

"**What if it's a trap? This is the enemy, after all."**

"It's all the lead we have. We only have half an hour left. It's worth the risk."

Little hesitation on Jean's side, either. **"All right, we'll go with your call. I'm sending Liesel ahead to clear the area for you."**

"Thanks, Jean. Tell her to be careful. From Triela's report, the enemy can somehow turn invisible."

"**Understood. Be careful, Mireille."**

"I will. Over and out."

**  
**His cheek dripped blood.

Giuseppe couldn't believe he missed.

The powerfully-driven slim knife blade had snapped upon the steel floor. Hurtling upwards, the broken shard grazed his face, tracing a shallow gash on his cheek before it pinged somewhere behind him. The wound seeped warm blood.

_I missed._

The first time was understandable. Somehow that dark-haired girl– Claes–sensed his trap and pulled her teammate away in time. She was good. _How would I have fared if I fought her instead of Henrietta?_ Giuseppe caught himself actually looking forward to such an occasion. _What, you like fighting with girls?_

But this, the second time– this was criminal. Here he had the upper hand. His opponent was incapacitated. The range involved was zero. He had practiced and done this act of murder so many times that he found it routine, reflexive, not even worth a thought or a nightmare.

_I missed. Somehow I missed._

_No. I didn't miss. I hit what I wanted to hit._

He stared at the girl beneath him, the girl he needed to kill. The enemy whose life he had just spared. Remnants of tears still graced those soft brown eyes. Tears that had stayed her execution and proven something: _she is human._

_Just like me._

**  
**Beneath him, Henrietta released her breath.

_I'm alive._ Seeing the boy poised above her, confusion filling his face, she realized:_ He let me live._

He was hurt. Somehow his still-handsome face had gotten cut. She watched a crimson droplet dribble free of that wound. She did not brace against it, allowed it to splash upon her right eye, the eye that would have taken the knife. Her sight became awash in pink, red blood and clear tears, life and sorrow mingling.

_His name is Giuseppe._

Beneath him, she moved. Slowly, so as not to provoke him the wrong way, she reached out to touch his wound. Her fingers hovered over that unworthy streak of crimson that dared mar his handsome face, the face he shared with the man she loved the most.

**  
**_She's reaching for me. She wants to touch me. She's **worried** for me._

It was more than he could stand. Angrily shutting his eyes against her kindness, Giuseppe shoved her probing hand aside and looked away.

"No! What is wrong with you?" _What is wrong with me?_ "I want to kill you." _I **should** kill you!_ "We're enemies! We shouldn't– shouldn't feel–"

"Can't enemies feel for each other when they can?"

Opening his eyes again, he saw her looking hurt by his words. Her brown eyes softened even more. He felt the rest of her body, pinned beneath his weight, follow suit. She looked so vulnerable, helpless. Giuseppe suddenly felt an irresistible urge to comfort her, to– to take advantage of her helplessness and–

He felt like retching at the filthy thought. Instead he shuddered and wept.

_God damn you! You– you've beaten me…_

**  
**She did not know why she said that. Why enemies could feel for their opposite numbers. It just came out. But his sorrow– that, she knew and understood. It was once her burden, too. Still was and forever would be hers to carry.

Tears, his tears, wet her face. Again she reached out to him. Sobbing, he did not resist or evade.

She touched his bleeding wound. She, too, had once bled like that, wounded by weapons, hurt by words and feelings.

Her fingers caught some of his tears. They were real and heartfelt, so familiar. Once, so long ago, she cried in much the same manner. Once, too, she was lost and forlorn and hopeless.

Those memories and emotions were the proof of her. They made her real, as they did the same for him. _They make _us _human_.

"Go," she murmured.

**  
**Giuseppe howled. (Triela, hurriedly backtracking after the dead end, nearly stumbled in her tracks, thinking a wild animal was somehow loose on the ship.) He howled because he had no other way to express the savage confusion this girl awakened within him, no other way save to take her then and there and–

But he couldn't. Wouldn't. She didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve her.

Henrietta did not stir, only smiled sadly, bitterly. "Giuseppe. Go. Take care."

**  
**Unable to resist, unwilling to linger any long lest he lose control of himself, he fled. He knew he could never escape her from that moment on. She would always haunt him.

_Henrietta._

_Thank you…_

**  
**Mireille's stopwatch ran down to zero.

Nothing happened.

She waited for a tense minute, then five more. After fifteen, still nothing. No explosions. No fire and death and destruction. All that remained were rapidly dissipating fears and an equally quick rush of heady euphoria.

She exchanged long looks with the equally relieved Altheus. Both grinned despite their professionalism.

"Let's tell them the good news."

**  
"Jean? All bombs have been found and defused. The Mirasol is secure. Mission accomplished."**

Jean allowed himself a brief smile. "Good work. To all junior operatives," he crisply ordered, "Run that enemy cyborg down."

**  
**Ten minutes after the last bomb was defused, nearly nineteen past their agreed deadline, Rolito finally grinned. "Hop aboard, Giuseppe. We're getting the hell out of here."

The boy shuffled past him with responding. _Is he crying?_ Rolito found Giuseppe's silence puzzling but opted to press for details later. They had to get out of here.

Their ride's armored blast door closed, the cockpit cabin sealing and pressurizing against possible NBC attack. The main screen displayed the Amalgam logo accompanied by electronic whistling and various electronics booting up.

**  
Armored Mobile Master-Slave Unit**

**Amalgam Plan 1056 Codarl M**

**Operating System**

**  
_"Welcome, my Master,"_ **a cute female– he was adamant on that particular detail–voice announced.

"Begin systems check," Rolito ordered.

"**_Okay. Auto systems check initiate. Palladium Reactor, okay. Vetronics, okay. Lambda Driver, okay. All systems final check all green, okay. Ready okay, my Master."_**

_Gundam has nothing on me,_ Rolito rather immaturely thought. He shoved the arm throttles/controls forward.

"Venom! Launch!"

**  
**Rico, still sighting for possible targets through the AMR's powerful scope, gasped. "Jean!"

**  
**A huge box container strapped to the _Mirasol_'s upper deck– thought to be part of the ship in satellite photos and Section Two briefings, but actually placed there by an Amalgam ECS-equipped heavy lifter during the previous night– explosively fell apart. The massive figure that rose from just-collapsed concealment briefly stood out against the oil tanker's sparsely festooned, badly-lit topside before suddenly vanishing from sight.

In the next heartbeat, the _Mirasol_ rocked. A powerful metallic clang reverberated throughout the length and breadth of the ship, knocking about its surprised occupants. A few seconds later and several hundred meters away, something big hit the concrete docks. Then there was the sound of giant feet breaking into a run.

**  
**They heard it all too well. Whatever it was, it was huge, surprisingly mobile and coming Section Two's mobile command post's way.

Jean turned to his companions. "Get out! Now! Run!"

Section Two and Sparrow personnel scrambled out of the command trailer. Just as Jean, the last man, cleared it, something big hit the fifteen foot long vehicle with tremendous force. The converted cargo trailer tumbled violently for a hundred meters before crashing against an abandoned building. Luckily it did not explode.

The scattered commandos caught brief glimpses of their attacker: a dark humanoid shape thirty feet tall with something resembling a long ponytail floating from the top of its mono-eyed head. The multi-ton figure was astonishingly fleet for its size.

"What the hell was that?" the astonished Hillshire muttered even as the mysterious giant faded away once more, this time for good.

"Arm Slave," Jean coldly swore.

**  
**Having indulged himself with destroying the enemy command post, Rolito now focused on escaping Trieste. Their escape ride, a stealthy heavy lift helicopter, waited westwards across the border with Croatia. ETA at current speed: ninety minutes.

The ECS-protected Codarl settled into a brisk eighty mph run, fast but not pushing the machine. Rolito set the navigation mode to Auto, allowing the Arm Slave to proceed on its own while he took a breather.

He also set the sensors into Long Range Scan Mode and placed Combat on Battle Reflex Alert. There was a nearby Italian Army base with heavy lifter-equipped M6 Bushnell rapid response teams. The Italians could also call in plenty of faster attack helicopters and ground attack jets. Rolito wanted to be well warned and ready for any counterattack even as he rested.

Done, the senior assassin finally glanced over his seat's headrest. "You okay, Giuseppe?"

"Yes, Sensei." The boy buried himself as much as possible into the cramped passenger seat, Rolito's Codarl modified as a very tight two-seater. "I'm all right."

"You sure? You sound like you're hurt."

"My face got cut and I took some bullets to my torso." Giuseppe didn't bother mentioning his face being used as a punching bag by a girl, cyborg or not. "That's all. Mostly I'm fine."

"If you say so," was the slightly dubious answer. "Still, we're getting you checked and repaired ASAP. Did you kill any of them?"

He felt his heart beat strongly against battered suit and gloved hand. He remembered gentle fingers that caressed his wounded cheek and tears that shared his own sorrow.

"No, Sensei. I didn't manage to kill any of them."

_I couldn't kill her…_

**  
**Mireille gasped. Henrietta looked like she came out second best in a fight with a bear. Blood and gore dripped from the ugly slash across her left forearm. Her small face had been bruised black. She was a sorry sight, barely able to walk despite Triela and Claes's support.

"Jesus Christ, Henrietta!" Mireille bound the gaping wound with a handkerchief. "What happened to you?"

She looked up to her worried handler, at her equally anxious friends. She remembered the boy who didn't kill her, the boy with _his_ face and name. She started tearing up.

"I'm sorry, Miss Mireille," Henrietta sobbed despite the warm hug. "He got away. I let him get away."

**  
**_"Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again."_

Next on **_Life Goes On_**:Pezzo** (Pieces)**.


	16. Pezzo

**Life Goes On**

**  
Disclaimer:**_Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. Meir is owned by Nachtsider. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. New Amalgam side character mentioned (not an OC, but adapted for my own use)!

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**  
Sixteen**

_Pezzo_

Pieces

* * *

"_After three tension-filled days, the Mirasol crisis has finally been resolved. At 2:00 A.M this morning, the Italian government announced that a composite Special Forces assault team has retaken the oil tanker Mirasol from the terrorist Covenant Reformation Group…"_

_"…a belated victory... All terrorist hijackers from the Covenant Reformation Group have been killed or captured. Six bombs were found and defused. No commando casualties reported…"_

_"These brave soldiers had just saved Trieste, Italy, the Mediterranean and Europe from a tremendous danger…"_

_"The identities of the commandos involved were kept secret to protect their families against possible retaliation by the CRG…"_

_"The CRG's spokespersons have not yet issued any official statement regarding their failed attempt to sow terror by threatening to destroy the Mirasol…"_

_"At least one civilian witness claims to have seen an Arm Slave of unknown make during the operation… this may explain the heavy Army presence, including heavy-lifter AS squads from the nearby NATO/Italian Army base..."_

_"A confidential source states that the CRG sent at least one child soldier to fight against the military commandos…"_

"We do not approve, and completely condone, the use of children in combat…"

_"…the volatile Balkans is quieting down… military forces poised at disputed borders are standing down and returning to their barracks…"_

_"Peace is returning to Trieste. Police and local government units begin restoration efforts even as civilian evacuees trickle back to the important port city…"_

_"All that is left to do is pick up the pieces of our disrupted lives…"_

* * *

**  
**The very first thing Henrietta did upon getting back to headquarters was lock up in her room. Nothing, not even Mireille's fervent pleading, proved to be the magic word that could open her fortress of solitude.

"Etta! Please open up! We need to have Doctor Bianchi look at your wounds!"

There wasn't even a weak whimper protesting that. Just silence.

Mireille was halfway through a sigh when Triela pointedly asked if Henrietta was really moving back into her old room, the one she shared with Rico before her reconditioning.

"Well, yes, but why do you–"

A powerful sidekick tore the door off its hinges to noisily topple into the room. Mireille stared at the sudden wreckage.

"How uncouth," Hilshire muttered to himself a bit too loudly.

Shooting him a brief glare, Triela stomped inside. A brief argument unfolded, then sounds of minor scuffling and Henrietta's pathetic wailing.

Hilshire held back the worried Mireille despite his earlier disapproval. "Trust me. Triela means well. And you don't want to get caught in the middle of it."

A huffy Triela emerge the victor a few minutes later. She dragged the spoils of war a.k.a Henrietta out of the room by the collar of the smaller girl's tattered blouse. "Henrietta, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Triela grumbled. "Here your handler worries herself into her dotage for you, but you don't pay her any attention or respect due her!"

Henrietta whimpered like the kicked puppy she currently resembled.

"You didn't have to bully her, Triela," Mireille scolded, seeing her ward an even sorrier sight after the impromptu wrestling match.

"She can be pretty spoiled if you let her be. You need a firm hand at times. Spare the rod, spoil the child, goes the old saying."

"That's a very enlightening lesson," Hilshire dryly commented. The man's tone was amazingly neutral. "I think I'll keep it in mind."

"Keep talking, Hilshire, keep talking…"

"What were you doing inside your room, Etta?" Mireille asked.

"It's– nothing, Miss Mireille…"

"She was holding a notebook." Not for the first time, Triela's period got the better of her diplomacy and common sense. "It looked to me like a diary."

Henrietta turned a bright tomato red. Hilshire shook his head at his junior partner. But Mireille only smiled.

"I see. You want to write about your mission in your diary before treatment? I understand. Don't worry. Go ahead and write it. After you're done, I'll keep it for you. I promise I won't look at it or let anyone else touch it."

"Really?" Henrietta immediately brightened. "Thank you, Miss Mireille!"

"Just don't take too long. I want to have your injuries checked and tended to as soon as possible."

"I won't!" She scurried back into her room.

Triela grumbled. "All that effort on my part, unappreciated and gone to waste…"

Hilshire wisely chose not to comment. Mireille, however, had no such inhibitions.

"In a bad mood today, aren't you, Triela-chan?"

"Please. And what's with the –chan thing you're attaching to my name?"

"An affectation I caught from a good friend of mine. She's a bad influence at times."

**  
**Halfway across the world, Yuumura Kirika sneezed.

**  
**Bravely blinking back tears, her left hand clumsily substituting for her injured right arm, Henrietta finished her entry.

**  
_I met a boy yesterday. His name is Giuseppe. He was a mechanical body like me. We fought. He spared my life. I let him go._**

* * *

****

**  
**The worried Elena was all over Giuseppe like a clucking mother hen. "Big brother! What happened? How horrid! Who did this to you?"

"Now, now, Elena-tan." Rolito gently but firmly took the worried girl aside. "Let's not trouble Giuseppe-kun too much. He's tired and hurt. Let him be. Okay?"

She pouted but acquiesced.

"Giuseppe? Go get yourself looked over by Doctor Mizuno. I'll take care of Elena-tan."

"Yes, sensei."

The battered boy limped off to the nearby cyborg lab. Rolito grimaced.

_Now what could have happened to that boy?_

* * *

**  
**Bianchi was grim. "I won't lie to you, Mireille. None of our girls have ever taken this much damage before."

"How bad is it, Doctor?"

"Her right arm has been seriously damaged. I'll need to completely replace it. She also has several concussions and a large number of bruises on her face and body. What concerns me is that I'll need to use a lot of conditioning as anesthetic during the operation. You already know that excessive amounts of the drug– even the new one we're using– will shorten Henrietta's already limited lifespan and cause her to lose memories."

_So that was why she wanted to write it down. She didn't want to forget whatever it was she saw and felt._

_Is it that powerful? That memory you so want to keep? What happened to you, Etta? What is it you can't tell me? Why can't you tell me?_

_Am I not worthy of your trust?_

Her hands tightened upon the leather-bound diary. Now, all too familiar with Section One's dark secrets and deeply committed to her new partner, Mireille knew she could never escape the organization. Not without abandoning Henrietta.

_I won't leave her._

"Do what you can, Doctor. I believe in you."

_I'll make sure that this never happens again. The next time, Etta will be ready. And I'll be there to protect her._

* * *

**  
**"Well," Mizuno Ami, Amalgam Rome's resident cyborg specialist and all-around doctor, reported, "The good news is that Giuseppe's damage isn't as bad as it looks."

Not to say it was minor. Bruises covered the boy's face, torso and arms. Bullet impacts accounted for most of those; his Ballistic Protection Suit had stopped all but six. Those last half dozen did puncture his skin but caused no damage to his internal organs. The fistfight accounted for the rest of the contusions, a minor concussion and a groin injury.

And each item of injury made Rolito wince. Especially that last.

No one had ever inflicted that much damage on Giuseppe before. In fact, no one had ever managed to even begin to match him. Not those simple-minded but abominably strong Astral robots, not phenomenally skilled and experienced fighting instructors, never Elena, not even Rolito himself on a good day. The toughest combat drills only resulted into a few scratches and a sheepish grin.

But this– and in melee, too: hand-to-hand, Giuseppe's specialty. The boy was lucky to get out of the fight alive and most in one piece.

_I hope we won't be running into **that** particular cyborg again any time soon..._

"Anyway, he won't need serious surgery," the good doctor finished, "Though we'll need to replace a lot of skin. Don't worry. He'll be all right soon enough."

"You can say that, Ami, but Giuseppe still looks to me like someone ran over his favorite pet puppy– and then backed over the dog just to make sure it was dead."

Indeed the boy morosely sat in the nearby waiting room without a word or action to the contrary. He ignored Elena's concerned attention, head bowed, eyes and thoughts on something invisible and distant, and often sighed deeply.

_I've been through that phase before. It's not fun._

"I'm theorizing post-battle stress syndrome," Ami persisted. "Giuseppe fought enemy cyborgs equal to or stronger than him for the first time. While he did escape, he also failed his mission. Considering his previously perfect record, he must feel very disappointed with himself."

"Maybe." Privately, Rolito was unconvinced. _It's something else. But what can it be?_

* * *

**  
**"Don't worry, Henrietta." Bianchi smiled at his patient through his surgical mask. The hypodermic needle hovered over a vein in her mangled right arm. "This won't hurt."

"Doctor Bianchi?"

"Yes?"

"Will I lose all my memories?"

The needle stopped short of skin. She looked so pale and weak. Like an ordinary little girl and not a near-unstoppable killing machine. And she looked to him for nonexistent salvation.

"One day," the good doctor sighed, unable to lie to such a plaintive face, "You will." _We all do._

"Claes told me that if you want something to be remembered, you should write it down into a book."

"That's very good advice. You should listen to Claes. She knows a lot."

"I know. She gets angry if I tell her that, though. She says I need work on my humor." That got Bianchi to laugh.

"Well, she isn't perfect. And don't worry. The new conditioning is far less damaging to your memories. You'll be all right."

Henrietta shivered. She began to weep.

"I… I don't want to forget! I don't want to forget any of you– to lose you... I don't want to die. I want to live!"

**  
**Behind the glass screen of the observing room, Mireille could no longer bear to look at her partner's suffering. "Can we," she softly asked, averting her eyes from the sorry spectacle, "Still see them as tools this way? Can you?"

His hand reassuringly clasped her bare shoulder. It was the first time after a long and bloody while that she let a man touch her. She needed it. Needed the comforting reassurance that the presence of another person. Kirika was not here.

"No," Jean quietly admitted, watching the girl his brother named after a mutually cherished loved one undergo the knife for one too many times. "Not anymore."

It was the closest Mireille came to crying in front of other people.

* * *

**  
**"And that's that." Ami stepped back to peel her gloves off her hands. "Good job, people. Keep him sedated for a few more hours. Then we can slowly bring him awake."

"Yes, Doctor."

Letting her assistants handle the rest of the minor details, she briskly walked out of the operating room to flash her anxious supplicants a quick smile. "Giuseppe is going to be fine," Ami told them.

Elena broke into a joyous cheer. Rolito did one better: he hugged Ami.

"Thanks, Ami. I owe you huge."

"He'll need time to get used to the repairs," the nonplussed Ami continued, though she did return the embrace. "And don't let him take a bath for a few days. His new skin will be tender."

"I hear you, ma'am."

"When can we visit big brother?" Elena eagerly asked.

"Tomorrow. Let him sleep for a while. He needs all the rest he can get."

Her light brown braids bobbed alongside her beaming face. _Big brother… Get well quickly, okay?_

* * *

**  
**The girl woke up to find the ceiling very familiar and the room a déjà vu kind of bland.

_I've been here before._

A blonde woman partially sprawled upon the right side of her bed. _She watched me while I slept. She was waiting for me to wake up._ Smiling at the kindness shown her, the girl let her guardian drowse some more. _She looks younger when she's asleep. Much kinder than she already is._

Sitting up, she experimentally fingered the woman's golden hair. She secretly envied of that luxuriously soft mane. Abruptly a memory of herself with long hair, longer than her partner's and almost as long as– Angie, right? Angelica–, intruded on her reverie.

_When was that? Another one of the memories with _him_ that I have forgotten?_

The object of her adoration stirred. The girl smiled at her groggy, just-waking partner.

"Miss Mireille? Did I disturb you?"

She received a powerful hug for her question. "Thank God, Henrietta," Mireille whispered, pulling the girl to her all the more. "Thank God you're all right."

Henrietta felt tears weigh her eyes. She did not hold them back. "Yes, Mireille," she wept. "I'm all right."

In her mind's eye, she could see him still: the boy with the kind eyes and sad face, named after the man she loved so much, the enemy she felt for despite knowing better.

_Giuseppe. I still remember you._

* * *

**  
**"You know, Elena, Sensei," joked Giuseppe, confined to bed for the time being, "This is actually funny. For once, I'm the one in the hospital and Elena's the one worrying over me."

The vise-like grip on his arm tightened (thankfully not around his still-sore skin). Elena hadn't released him since Ami allowed visitations yesterday. "Dummy," she sorely reproached. "You shouldn't joke about things like this…"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Humor is the best medicine, Elena-tan," Rolito diplomatically pointed out. "It's been scientifically proven to help people get better much quicker."

"Well, I'm **much** better than any medicine or nurse."

"Of course," both men immediately agreed.

Apples and fruit juice were at hand. Elena skillfully peeled and cut one up. She offered the bite-size pieces for her brother's dining pleasure. Rolito didn't know whether to laugh or grimace.

_In Japanese culture, the girl peels and slices fruits for the boy she romantically liked._

He fondly remembered an extended hospital stay of his own courtesy a severe allergic reaction to an antidote against poison gas. (_Poisoned by the antidote. How ironic._) The bewitching Japanese beauty who peeled him fresh fruits– with the very knife she skinned people with. (_Well, Masakari **did** wash the thing before she used it on that apple._) And the little girl who lovingly clung to him as much as Elena did to Giuseppe now.

_Those were the good old days…_

"I have to report to our boss." Rolito stood up. "Elena, I leave Giuseppe in your capable hands."

"No!" Giuseppe feigned horror. "Sensei! Don't abandon me in her vile clutches!"

Elena playfully bopped him on the head. "Good luck, sensei," she bid.

"Thanks. Take good care of your brother. I'll see you two later. Ciao."

The door closed.

"Say, 'Ah'," Elena sweetly ordered.

Giuseppe obediently ate the offered slice.

* * *

**  
**Hearing the knock, Rico looked up from the framed photograph of the boy she revered. "Who is it?"

"Rico? It's me. Henrietta. Miss Mireille and Triela and Hilshire are with me. Can we come in?"

"Sure."

Henrietta and Mireille carried several bags. Behind them, a slightly puffy Hilshire lugged a much bigger box. Triela rolled her eyes at her handler's unnecessary macho assist even as she herself toted a couple of bags.

"I'm back," Henrietta brightly announced.

"Welcome back," Rico replied just as happily.

In the blonde girl's hands, the smiling Meir waved in greeting.

* * *

**  
"Good to see you again, Rolito."**

"The pleasure is all mine, sir."

"**Give me your personal report on your latest mission."**

"Yes, sir. Our mission at the Mirasol failed both strategic and tactical goals. Tactically we failed to fulfill our limited objective of destroying at least two cyborgs. We did not even destroy a single unit. In addition, Giuseppe– Unit Zero One– was outnumbered and outgunned. He was damaged."

"Strategically, we've revealed our cyborg program to Section Two. While they have already suspected our involvement, encountering Unit Zero One gives them solid proof of Project Child's existence. They may inform Mithril and they may attack us in the future. This requires heightened security measures and preparedness on the Rome Division.

"I may have also alienated the Covenant Reformation Group." Rolito briefly explained the circumstances concerning the late Patricio. "Though if my cover story holds, other agents may still use them in the future. I suggest a stricter implementation of psyche profile checks to avoid the kind of trouble I've encountered.

"That is the extent of my report, sir."

_Now comes the hard part: waiting._

Leonard Testarossa's photoelectric doppelganger regarded him with piercing eyes.

"**What can you say for Project Child, then?"**

"Speaking for myself, sir, I ask you to proceed– no; I **urge** you to **accelerate** the project's mass implementation. Our cyborg has proven its effectiveness in combat. Unit Zero One has defeated superior numbers of conventional human commandos and survived battle against enemy cyborgs. This operation validates the primacy of the cyborg trooper in today's combat environment. To stay on the cutting edge of weapons technology, we must incorporate the cyborg into our own programs."

"**Noted. Is there anything else you have on your mind?"**

"Yes, sir. There is one thing."

* * *

**  
**_"We express our deepest gratitude to these brave men and women who risked their lives to save the Mirasol and protect the Italian people…"_

"He needs a better speechwriter," Jean observed while turning off the TV.

Chief Lorenzo smiled at his right hand man's practicality. "His speechwriter is his favorite nephew. His brother might be offended."

"Well, this is still good for us. Fermi sent us the thank-you notes from higher-up."

"Gracious of him. I understand the commander he dispatched proved tenable?"

"We got along well." Leopardi had thrown a huge drinking spree for both his own men and the Section Two handlers after the mission. Cheers to the death and burial of intra-service rivalry in the SWA.

"On a less pleasant note, the Army sent us a bill for the destroyed command trailer."

"Rather petty of them"

"Yes. They lost twenty elite troopers and then had to watch us save the day."

"Should we expect any trouble from them?"

**  
**_"Unfortunately," Sergeant Major Fio Germi told Jean and Mireille before her departure for the Sparrows' HQ in Britain, "My bosses are often this stupid. But don't worry overmuch. They'll get over it soon enough."_

_Then, with her trademark humor: "Hey, Jean, if they fire me, can I join your outfit?"_

"_Of course."_

And if the Army dares to move against you– or us,_ Jean didn't say aloud to his friend,_ we'll be waiting for them.

**  
**"There are other important issues to consider. We have now confirmed the existence of at least one Amalgam cyborg, a boy. He ambushed Henrietta, Triela and Claes. They repelled and pursued him. Henrietta briefly caught up and fought him before he made good his escape."

Jean passed a sheaf of sketches to Lorenzo. Henrietta's sketches of the boy she fought. The boy was tall and dusky-skinned like Triela. His rather long hair was curly. His facial features bore a definitely hostile edge.

"According to Henrietta, he had black eyes and black hair. She confirmed a kukri and several throwing knives recovered from the tanker as his. No fingerprints were recovered; the boy wore gloves. His handler is very good."

_Colonel Daren– if that is his real name– ighty be more dangerous than his cyborg._

Lorenzo intently perused the sketches. Henrietta's skill was evident in the subtlest stroke and gentlest shade. Her subject seemed to have been frozen in time, yet looked very much alive.

Jean allowed himself a brief smile. _The small things in life I've forgotten about._

"There are three items that concern me. First, Liesel encountered two men in the deck beneath the bridge. She killed one of them. The fatality was a confirmed rabid CRG footman. This man's hands were tied behind his back. He had a wound on his right wrist. The coroner says the wound was inflicted by a bladed weapon.

"The other man she encountered managed to escape. Liesel describes him as Asian, wearing all black. He was carrying a duffel bag. "Jean passed Lorenzo another set of sketches.

"Our girls are quite the artists, aren't they?"

"Yes, Chief, they are. Continuing, our prisoners identified this man as a Taiwanese weapons dealer named Colonel Daren. He is the enemy cyborg's handler. I assume he is from the organization called Amalgam. He left behind a bag of defused explosives."

That got him the reaction he wanted. "Defused, you say?" Lorenzo asked.

"Yes. They were defused. Liesel discovered a still-active time bomb nearby, which she defused. Next, one of our clean-up teams discovered three corpses stuffed inside steel lockers in the lower deck of the Mirasol. All three men were CRG."

The coroner's written report had all the gory details. Two had been killed by penetrating trauma through ocular opening (military medical speak for "thrown knife to the eye"). The third's stomach had been gutted open by an extremely sharp blade. His heart had been stabbed through and then sliced in half.

"Finally, there is that call that pointed us to the location of the last bomb. Its honesty is undeniable. Otherwise, our teams would all be dead, the Mirasol destroyed, Trieste reduced to a cinder and possibly war in the Balkans.

"Mireille and I went over these facts several times. We both have only one conclusion that makes sense. The Amalgam agent on board never planned to destroy the Mirasol. When he learned that the CRG was planning to truly destroy the oil tanker, he turned on his allies, killed them and defused most of the bombs. When we had unknowingly cut him off from those last two bombs, he contacted us and directed us to the last bomb."

Jean prepared to deliver the last blow as gently as possible to the extremely pale Lorenzo.

"In other words, Chief, we only succeeded at the Mirasol because Amalgam let us win."

* * *

**  
**"Giuseppe-kun?"

The boy and his sister looked up. Their sensei's grin was infectious and admittedly wicked, identical to the one that accompanied his earlier brainstorm for the Mirasol Op.

Giuseppe and Elena's dismayed groans were cut short by his announcement.

"How would you like to be an Arm Slave pilot, Giuseppe?" Rolito airily asked.

* * *

**  
**Eight o'clock PM. Jean stood up. "If you will excuse me, Chief, I have to go."

"You look to be in a hurry, Jean."

"I have a date," He said with all seriousness.

**  
**The door locked behind her. Claes let her breath out slowly.

She didn't need to browse through her notebooks anymore. Her head and heart now held everything important. Conditioning was no longer enough to destroy memories. Henrietta was living proof of that.

They would need to truly kill her to destroy her knowledge.

Even so, she just might come back to life.

She now possessed the last clue to the mystery. **He**, the man who made her who she was, his written self hidden in his books, took his time to distil his suspicions and voice out a suspect.

But now she had a name. Now she knew her enemy.

_**Jean.** It seems you owe me greatly._

_Rico. Mireille. I sincerely apologize for what I must do. I hope you understand what I will do, especially after Henrietta taught us that lesson anew not so long ago. But this is something I **must** do._

Claes hoped and prayed that her muse, her inspiration and father and teacher, felt better now wherever he was.

_Wait a little longer, Sir Raballo. Wait a little longer. Then– then we can go fishing all we want…_

**  
**"This is probably a first," Mireille noted as she and her date toasted wine glasses over plates of exquisite seafood pasta.

"Oh?"

"I mean a dinner. For the both of us, too, I'd say."

"Agreed, Mireille." He actually smiled. It made him look rather charming.

They ate in politely friendly silence. "The pasta is exquisite," Mireille approved.

"That was what I told my brother when he brought Henrietta here for the first time."

"So you're a food connoisseur as well, Jean?"

"It's one of my lesser talents."

"I would say it's a greater talent, not lesser."

"I would argue the point."

The evening went by perfectly.

**  
**It was late when she reverently hid the sketchbook beneath her pillow and herself upon her bed. Her eyes traced patterns into the smooth white-painted surface of the still-familiar ceiling in the manner of a pencil drawing upon blank paper, stenciled the image she kept into her brain over and over again.

_If you want to keep something alive, work on it, keep thinking of it, write it down or draw it._ Claes told her that. Henrietta was a good student.

Within the white pages of her notebook and the ethereal landscape of her mind, her latest sketch– the real face of the boy she met, fought and cared for– stayed safe and unseen by none save her.

* * *

**  
**Giuseppe finished packing the last of his clothes. A separate bag held his weapons, including a brand-new kukri. Rolito had endlessly teased him for losing his original blade. "The samurai's soul is his sword– which is why you should be thankful that you're an **assassin**."

He would gain another new weapon soon enough.

_Arm Slave pilot training in Helmajistan, huh? Sensei must really have a lot of confidence in me despite my failing the Mirasol mission._

_I won't let him down again. I'll do my best this time._

_At least **she** won't be there. Otherwise– I don't know what I would do if we had to fight again…_

He remembered her words, her question and condemnation. _"Can't enemies feel for one another when they can?"_

Giuseppe shook his head clear of the confusing thoughts she engendered in his head. _Where was Helmajistan again? _He thought back to one of the maps he studied earlier._ North Asia. I'm actually leaving Italy and going to a foreign country for the first time in my life. And I'm going to pilot a giant robot, too._

_If it wasn't so dangerous, I might think this is fun._

Elena sat on the foot of his bed. She behaved for once. Didn't even indulge in childishly kicking her heels about, something she did whenever displeased or impatient. He thought her compliance strange but accepted blessings whenever he could get them.

"I wish you wouldn't go," she murmured.

"I'd like to stay here, too, Elena. But Sensei says I have to go. He's got a lot of trust in me. And it's my job, after all. I have to do it."

Giuseppe grimaced. His arguments sounded so cliché. Even worse, like a soldier or policeman telling his wife or lover about duty and all before he went off to get himself killed. Just like in the movies.

_Stop using such bad metaphors. And with Elena, too, of all people. Sensei ought to skin me alive._

Elena's eyes brimmed with tears. She practically leapt off the bed to hug him.

She had always been emotional. But the desperate strength of her embrace, the near-ferocity with which she buried her small face into his chest, startled him.

"Take care, big brother."

"I will."

"Make sure you always wear clean underwear."

He grimaced. Sometimes Elena sounded just like their mother. "Yes, Mother."

"And," her hug tightened even more, "And don't go around chasing after strange girls…"

"Elena?"

She sobbed. "Just promise me, Giuseppe. Please."

"All right, Elena." He hugged her back. "I promise you."

**  
**_And I'm sorry. I've already broken that promise even before I made it._

_Henrietta…_

* * *

**  
**_"They called themselves the Handsome Men."_

Next on **_Life Goes On_**:Handsome Men.


	17. Handsome Men

**Life Goes On**

** Disclaimer:**_Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. Handsome Men and Jeremy Colt original characters owned by **Person with many aliases**, who gave me permission to use them. I highly recommend you read up his work with the same title to get a better feel out of his OCs.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**Dedication:** To Person with many aliases. You made this possible. Cheers.

* * *

**  
Seventeen**

Handsome Men

* * *

**  
**Since the introduction of the mechanical body as an antiterrorist and anticrime weapon in 2000, various First World countries and several organizations such as Amalgam developed their own cyborg commandos. The most renowned of them were the Italians' pioneering Political Warfare Division Section Two and its Israeli counterpart, Childville. 

Following the stellar, if covert, performance of Section Two and Childville operatives during the Second Gulf War, the United States put a similar cyborg soldier program into motion. They used technology secretly transferred by the Italians and Israelis as well as borrowing from Whispered think tanks and, secretly, Amalgam.

Like all contemporaries to date, the American cyborgs were exclusively children, none older than fourteen, all girls, either cripples or orphans. Powerful drugs suppressed their memories and cemented their obedience to their handlers. Bullet-resistant carbon compound skin, artificial muscle fibers loosely based off the US Army's XM-9 Arm Slave's muscle packages and cybernetic implants made them into killing machines.

In a series of brutal battles against the Mafia, terrorists, zealots and the international mercenary force kNIGHTS, the American cyborgs proved their worth ten times over. The program remained "black", officially nonexistent, but funding massively increased after the reelection of key Senators and Congressmen who benefited from the project.

The project heads, with typically casual American humor, named their unconventional operatives after a somewhat erratic superhero team from a renowned video game and its tie-in book.

They called them the Handsome Men.

* * *

**  
**Jeremy Colt was a person with many aliases. 666-Lives. Crazy Horse. That Fucking Bastard Who Just Won't Die. He lived up all of them. It was a necessity. In his line of business, those who failed to do so died very quickly. 

Currently he occupied a table in a dimly-lit but rather swanky bar with the presumptuous name of "Maria's Heavenly Brewery". A fedora hat, long-tailed coat with buttoned-up collar and dark sunglasses made him look like a CIA spy from a bad Sixties movie. The summer heat and thick clothes made him sweat buckets.

_And all the tour guides said the Mediterranean has lovely summer weather. Fuck 'em._

His mug done, Colt asked a sour-looking middle-aged waitress for some more ice on his drink. At least he thought he said so in Italian. The way the woman stared, he'd probably told her he was an evil man who planned to hide in Italy until robot Lolita rooted him out with machine guns and grenades.

Yes, the truth certainly was stranger than fiction.

His idea was to stand out so as **not** to deserve attention. The torturous route to that oxymoronic notion could be briefly summarized. Colt noticed that people wearing trench coats tended to be very obvious. He also had a wealth of painful experience– and not a few bullet scars– about people often missing the obvious. Given these premises, he theorized that if he dressed suspiciously but stuck out like a sore thumb while at it, people would not bother with him, thinking him crazy or stupid.

He emptied half a case of the piss-poor local beer alongside a bottle of aspirin before he was done. Maybe he really **was** crazy or stupid. Maybe he was both. God knows he had lived long enough.

Unbelievably, his idea worked. No sane person wanted to be caught dead looking at the moron wearing heavy clothing on a blazing hot summer day. _An American tourist,_ ever-practical Italians decided at first glance._ It figures. Crazy foreigners…_

Cause for celebration. Colt ordered a refill.

The waitress poured him water.

"Fuck."

Maria's was one of the few places his hunters would stick out even worse than he did now. No way a ten-year-old girl make ten steps past the front door without some conscientious adult loudly telling her the place was off-limits to kids.

Aside, he wondered if any of those cyborg girls understood Italian.

A further advantage was that Maria's was a favorite watering hole for the local Mafia. At least half of the customers were button men. "Enemy of my enemy" applied. Colt took all the allies he could get.

Shining example was his still-absent contact. She stood as his complete opposite, preferring stealth to his erratic flair, pinpoint accuracy against stupendous firepower and silent lethality to braggadocio. She had only one codename. Its mere mention automatically sent shivers down the spine of any European underworld denizen (and certain Asian and American ones as well). Any pretender quickly died at her hands.

Obviously she was an old friend of his.

He needed her. His enemies were legion, tenacious as hell and very dangerous. Someone guarding his back was always welcome.

That and they were in love.

Everyone thought him dead after the Ogura Mission. Colt had sort of agreed with the bleak prognosis. Fighting hand-to-hand with a mechanical body got him cracked ribs and sternum, a broken nose and both arms bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction at the elbows. Not to mention a full clip of 9mm bullets emptied into his body. And to top it off, he got thrown out the window of a two-storey building.

_I'd like to see the face of the stuntman who plays me in my autobiographical movie when he sees the shitload of stuff he has to do._

But he wasn't one to die like that– or at all. Not while knowing she might be dying on him. So he dragged his mangled body home, waited just long enough to heal his gunshot wounds and rushed to that bloody Manor in the Franco-Spanish border so save **her**.

She was the furthest from a damsel in distress. He was certainly no knight in shining armor– though dark knight he did play to a certain cyborg girl who was trying to kill him back then. Still, their ending was fairy tale enough: save the girl, go home to have lots of hot sex and live happily ever after.

This was the sucky, prerequisite sequel.

One of the patrons looked familiar. _I did see a putty tat_, Colt grimly confirmed, recognizing the casually-dressed American "handler" (that was the popular term, so he heard) from New York half a year ago. _That means Lil' Miss P90 is lurking about somewhere._

He popped half a dozen aspirins and waited. Half an hour remained before his friend came back as agreed. He might as well sit back and enjoy himself until all hell broke loose.

* * *

**  
"Danielle? Are you in position?"**

"Yes, Vincent."

"**Stand by and watch out. Keep yourself hidden until I give the word or you spot Colt attempting to escape."**

"Okay." A moment of hesitation before she added, "Be careful, Vincent."

"**I will. You, too, okay?"**

"Yes."

**  
**Handsome Blue was one of nine operational Handsome Men Teams. A member of the "Amati Three" (so-called because their cyborgs usually carried their weapons in Amati violin cases), Blue was an Attack Unit specializing in frontal assault and close quarters combat. Danielle provided ninety five percent of its firepower.

The eight-year-old girl was a compact package of death. Just under four feet and blindingly fast, she was a difficult target at best due both her small size and lightning reflexes. Her artificial muscle packages gave her the strength of six men. Her reinforced skin was impervious to small caliber bullets. She could kill a hardened combatant with her bare hands alone.

She was also adorable. Black bow ribbons bound her neck-long hair into two thick ponytails that neatly flanked and magnified her pixy face. The long-sleeved vest of light purple had white cufflinks worn over a white turtleneck blouse and with a dark blue pleated skirt went well with her doe brown eyes and sweet looks. Anyone who saw her could not help but gush at such a cute little girl–

–which allowed her to take the first, usually fatal, shot.

Her weapons depended on her mood. Today she carried her modified FN P90 with pistol-grip modeled on Jan Valentine's gun from the anime _Hellsing_. It was arguably her favorite weapon. She wanted her Mateba automatic revolver (customized in the manner of _Trigun_'s Vash Stampede's .454 "Angel Arm") to go along with it. Vincent finally pointed out that her clothes couldn't conceal the huge handgun. Pouting, Danielle settled for a Beretta– customized, of course, to look like Éclair's from _Kiddy Grade_.

Vincent always had nightmares about ammo load-outs for their missions.

They needed the firepower. Crazy Horse had a rep for soaking up bullets like the aspirin he'd been observed to excessively pop. Orders were to literally cut his head off. And if he came back from that, then maybe he really was the Devil that the Underworld and the Christians kept talking about.

He was also difficult to track. Intel believed Colt killed during his battle with Handsome Light Brown in the Ogura mission. Everyone cheered or sighed in relief, popped beers and quickly forgot him.

Several months later, the "dead" man, his twin brother or an animated corpse gunned down a fairly unimportant US liaison officer assigned in Italy– a man who happened to be the favorite son of one of the Handsome Men's fairy god-Senators. By accident, too, according to Intel; Colt was after the Statie's female Russian counterpart, reportedly a KGB plant that the FBI and State Department trying to "flip". The American made the chivalrous but fatal mistake of getting in Colt's way.

The Russian died, too.

So much for Intel. The hunt for Crazy Horse was on again.

Mister Superior tapped two Teams, Blue and Light Brown, for the hit. Vincent, being the only handler who encountered Colt face-to-face before, was selected mission leader.

Most importantly, the Handsome Men would go into Rome unannounced. Not even their Italian counterpart and organizational model, Italy's Section Two, would be informed. Mr. Superior stressed utmost secrecy: "The diplomatic and political fallout that will follow discovery of our presence in Italy will be disastrous. This is a private hit for a loyal supporter. We must not compromise ourselves in any way."

**  
**Danielle (Handsome Light Blue) was extremely enthusiastic about the mission. She was the first cyborg to encounter– and lose to– Colt, and so wanted revenge just as badly as their sponsor.

Her partner Yuki (Light Brown) displayed no visible reaction other than to nod and state in her usual cryptic way, "Understood." Danielle tried her best to get her fellow agent to be more energetic.

"We're going to get him this time!"

"That remains to be seen," was the frustratingly mysterious answer.

Later that day, May (Orange) was seen talking to Yuki. No one knew what they discussed, but May's handler Johnny later noted that May acted– strange.

**  
**A US Air Force C-17 Globemaster III covertly ferried the two Teams into a NATO air base in Northern Italy. Come nightfall, they snuck out of the air base, assumed their faked identities and hopped into a waiting unmarked van. Detective work commenced in Rome, where Colt was last sighted.

Surprise Number One: their quarry wasn't alone. The Teams found women's clothing at the first two apartments they searched. Unless Crazy Horse happened to be a transvestite– unlikely, as male clothing several sizes bigger were also recovered on site–, he had a girl friend along for the ride.

But she never appeared. Successive apartments surrendered only men's clothes. Maybe the woman was a prostitute, a brief sexual fling who got tired and left in the middle of the night. Still, it paid to be careful.

The Teams finally caught Colt fleeing his latest apartment. (They were luckier than they knew. The suspicious assassin had booby-trapped the door with a Claymore anti-personnel mine. An assistant manager who made a little extra on the side by stealing from his customers' rooms died a spectacularly fiery death that night.) They stalked him through a maddeningly circuitous route across the city, losing him several times until a frantic Vincent split his forces in two. Twice Colt placed brief calls using public payphones before rushing off again.

Finally, Colt entered a bar– "Maria's Heavenly Brewery"– and didn't come out. Light Brown watched the front while Blue hurriedly circled the building to look for a back door. There was, but Colt had apparently not left the premises.

Lazarus then did the bravest thing a senior agent could do: he walked into Maria's without his cyborg partner. He confirmed Colt to be inside. He also noted that the man appeared to be waiting for someone.

That last troubled them.

A brief council decided to wait Colt out. The man couldn't wait forever. He would leave, sooner and later, and then they would have him.

Danielle would wait in ambush at the back of Maria's. Vincent would enter Maria's. **Someone** needed to keep an eye on the shifty Colt. While their mark had seen Vincent before, it had been nearly a year. Maybe he'd forgotten. Better than him recognizing and suspecting Lazarus. Light Brown's anonymity was irreplaceable at this point of the hunt.

Lazarus and Yuki camped on shaded bench in front of a ramshackle apartment across the street. The man pretended to read a newspaper. His partner did the same with an English-language paperback edition of The Little Prince. Yuki's Amati carrying case with the Colt Patriot and spare hundred-round drum magazine sat within easy reach. A small but powerful Beretta Px4 Storm hid somewhere in the back of her blouse.

If shit hit the fan, Yuki would take out the two guards at the entrance– her position gave her a clear field of fire– before storming Maria's front while Danielle simultaneously blew through the back door. The two cyborgs would then clean house.

Vincent hoped to avoid a premature shootout. Colt was smart. Maria's was packed with hostiles– local Mafia– as well as civilian noncombatants. Not the most unfavorable battlefield in history, but bad enough. Once the shooting started, the place would turn into a madhouse that Colt could easily use to escape. Not to mention the incident would make the headlines of the local newspapers, the exact opposite of secrecy that the Teams were supposed to maintain.

The low murmuring about him had tapered off. Slightly alarmed, Vincent turned to look. So had every customer inside– including, he didn't notice, his mark.

* * *

**  
**Colt knew the exact moment **she** arrived. The atmosphere in Maria's switched from restrained contentment to a bemused silence filled with wonder. That and he had eyes on the entrance all along. The sight was, to say the least, pleasant. 

Her appearance could be termed exotic. Her sharply angular face, slanting brows and fox eyes defied racial classification. For convenience's sake and judging by her name, Colt assumed she was French– though she could be an alien from outer space for all he knew. She drew attention like a black hole sucked in light, displaying her presence for everyone's viewing pleasure instead of skulking in the shadows.

The white beret topping her head reminded him of a swollen button mushroom. Neatly tucked within and beneath the headgear was hair of an odd shade of red that bordered on violet. Two thick bangs shielded the sides of her strong but youthful face. A white ribbon secured the rest into a rat tail. Her pupils were dark green orbs, hard and sharp and mysterious.

Her fashion sense was childishly cutesy. Her dress was white all over and clung to her lean frame like a second skin. Blue bands circled her throat and wrists. A cute purple-blue ribbon bow further decorated her dress' front while a bigger bow hung at her lower back. The ankle-length skirt split at the sides. Every sprightly step in brown girl's boots revealed lean legs and thigh-high black stockings.

The clothes made her look younger than– what? Colt realized he didn't know her exact age. Sixteen? Eighteen? He didn't plan on asking. No sense getting knifed (he was sure she hid at least half a dozen daggers in that dress) for broaching such a delicate subject. Assassin she might be, but she was also very much a woman– as many torrid Italian nights had taught him full well.

She marched, very sure of herself, across the bar and to his table. Her boots made an interesting clunking sound that hinted of petty annoyance. Parading herself in the open ran against the very grain of her nature, training and experience of sneaking in unseen to stab everyone in the back. That she acted so convincingly harmless, despite all the eyes tracking her every prim movement as she primly sat herself across Colt, spoke of a much-underplayed acting skill.

Feeling the envious interest directed at him, Colt smirked at his guest. "Nice dress," he drawled aloud in badly-accented French. "You cosplaying for an anime or something?"

"You mispronounced the word 'anime'." Her command of the language was perfect. Maybe she really was French. Her hard jade eyes disapproved of his attire. "You could have bought new clothes while attempting to throw off your pursuers."

"Nitpicker." He held his arms out to his sides in a pretended conciliatory manner. "Well, sorry for my shabby costume, Miss Fashion Expert, but the bastards have chased us out of every apartment we've rented before we even started settling in. I'm practically wearing my whole wardrobe on my back."

"And whose fault is it for being so sloppy in covering our tracks?"

"Screw you, woman. I've been doing this longer than you've been alive. I didn't ask you to critique my fashion sense **or** my skills."

She harrumphed in disdain. Then a faint smile creased her face. "I've missed you, Jeremy."

"Don't call me that." Colt hated his first name. And to think they had only been apart for a day. But he did return her smile and murmur back a faint "Me, too."

"By the way, that American sitting by himself is probably an enemy."

"So I've noticed." His forehead crinkled in curiosity. "Hey, you can tell he's American?"

"He smells American."

He decided not to test her sense of smell or judgment. "Uh, huh. Got a new bolt hole set up?"

"Yes. It's an old loft I used for my missions here several years ago. Only Mother and that girl know of it. I've checked it out. It's secure."

"Sounds great. All that's left is to shake off my unwanted admirers and bury my head in the ground for maybe the next decade or so. Then we can live happily ever after."

"Why don't you just eliminate them?"

"I've tried. They're pretty much bulletproof."

A red eyebrow rose.

"Remember all my afterglow stories about the Gunslinger Girls? Well, they're real. One or two are probably waiting outside."

"I assume the Japanese girl seated across the street in front of this establishment is one?"

"Yeah. She was the one who broke my arms before I went to save your sweet dimpled behind at the Manor. Did you also see a redhead while at it?" He discreetly gestured towards the casually-dressed American seated at the counter. "That's her handler."

"I see. Unfortunately, I did not notice a red-haired girl outside."

"Shit. If she isn't up front, she's probably lurking somewhere in the back of this dump. That means we'll have to use Exit Plan B."

"What is Exit Plan B?" She didn't remember an Exit Plan A, either.

"Give me a couple of minutes to think it up." He downed a handful of pills with his sixth glass of water.

"You don't have a plan," she accused.

"Plans aren't everything. You overplan, you die."

"The same can be said for having no plan at all."

"Stick in the mud."

And all was right in their little slice of the world.

* * *

**  
**A shadow fell over Page 40 and 41 of The Little Prince. _"Mizcuzi,"_ a small and rather musical voice asked in Italian, then switched to heavily accented English, "You play violin?" 

The girl could have passed for Danielle save she had shorter hair. She wore a sleeveless white collared blouse alongside a skirt checkered by black and red and white lines. She toted an Amati violin case similar to Yuki's and a shyly nervous smile.

Yuki considered several possible answers out of politeness. Then she caught Lazarus rubbing at his nose. **"Keep focused,"** it meant in their silent battle language.

Finding the suggestion sound but also deciding to be polite, Yuki murmured, "No," before returning to her discreet watch.

"Oh? No?" The girl babbled something in Italian. Aside, Yuki thought that Danielle, being Italian, might have done better at this discussion.

"How about viola?" the girl slowly asked.

Her persistence struck Yuki as suspicious. The pale-haired cyborg tapped Page 43 with her thumb twice to signal Lazarus about **"potential danger"**. Her handler tipped his head slightly: **"Understood, proceed"**.

The girl was still babbling. "Here is mine." She held up her Amati case to about the same level as the impassive Yuki's face and unlocked it. The lid flipped down to reveal–

Instantly Yuki dropped her book and went for her pistol.

–an FN P90 submachine gun.

"Don't move."

The command came from behind her. The newcomer's English was superbly cold. Same with the steel pistol muzzle pressed almost into the base of the unmoving Lazarus' head.

Yuki froze.

Her distraction smiled sadly. "Sorry," the redhead apologized, about all the remaining English she knew.

* * *

**  
**Vincent suppressed an urge to bite his lower lip. Colt's "friend" merited notice. Not just because she was a sweet thing to look at, the American agent told himself, the better to get rid of extraneous thoughts early. 

_Must be the owner of those clothes we picked up at the first apartment. Why did she appear only now? Was she an assassin, too? Shit._

Complications when least needed. He needed to confer with Lazarus. He had the feeling this new development might get them killed.

"Hello."

She was alluringly blonde. Though surprised and a bit puzzled at her attention, Vincent couldn't help but look her over. Her fair skin, golden hair and stunning looks advertised her as French. Her eyes were deep green and intelligent and completely locked on him. Great fashion sense, too: elegant red sleeveless blouse and a black skirt that his friend Joseph would politely describe as "brief".

"Hello," Vincent found himself replying. He felt rather pleased that such a looker would notice him. "Do we know each other?"

"We do now." The woman smiled some more. "My name's Mireille."

* * *

**  
**Her cybernetic implants made her immune to cramps but not boredom. The latter feeling was unwelcome after an hour squatting behind rusty sheet metal leaning against Maria's back fence. Part of the price paid for having less conditioning than the others. A price she gladly accepted. Vincent wanted her so. She believed in him. 

Footsteps sounded yet again. Vincent's standing orders were to avoid detection. Danielle huddled further into her concealment. She peered through the hole.

A mismatched pair entered the alleyway leading to Maria's. Both wore glossy dark suits. The man was big and dark-haired and stern-looking. His companion was a girl of thirteen or fourteen, tanned and blonde, walking in a combat crouch, pacing her steps for maximum silence.

In her arms, ominous barrel swinging from side to side like a obedient hunting dog's muzzle, was an angry-looking, bayonet-fanged shotgun.

Danielle quit breathing.

* * *

**  
**_This was the last thing all of them expected: to meet like this, without warning, and bring them back together like– "You."_

Next on **_Life Goes On_**: Incontro**(Encounter)**.


	18. Incontro

The blonde woman intently watched Maria's Heavenly Brewery. Her two companions– one an eleven-year-old girl, the other a year older– waited alongside her. Gone were the days when it was only her and Kirika against the world.

"So this is the place they picked." She watched a young woman in a white dress enter the bar. Her flesh-toned earpiece chirped. "Mireille here," she told the air. "Go ahead, Jean."

"**They have a Fratello team seated on that bench across the street. Rico has them in her sight."**

"What about our own teams?"

"**Almost done setting up."** Ferro, in charge of the support teams, was efficient as ever. **"Hilshire and Triela are already sweeping the rear. You can proceed with first contact."**

"Thanks for the head's up, Jean. On my way."

"**Be careful."**

"I will." The woman gave the girls a knowing look. "'Etta, Claes. I'm going to enter the bar. Go greet the American support team. Remember not to provoke them. They're not our enemies."

"Yes, Miss Mireille."

"Roger."

* * *

**  
Life Goes On**

**  
Note:** Text in **""** are said over the radio. Italicized text denotes thought. Bold text emphasizes certain words.

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. The Handsome Men and Jeremy Colt are courtesy **Person With Many Aliases**, who gave me permission to use them. I highly recommend you read up his work with the same title to get a better feel out of them.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

* * *

**  
Eighteen**

_Incontro_

(Encounter)

* * *

**  
**"Hello," the dazzling blonde affably greeted. Her English was flawless as her teeth and looks. 

Vincent blinked but recovered instantly by smiling back. "Hello. Do we know each other?"

"We do now. My name's Mireille."

"I'm Vincent. Pleased to meet you, Mireille."

"The same here. May I sit next to you?"

"Please."

Mireille ordered two glasses of sparkling water. She spoke fluent Italian. Her brilliant smile made Vincent forget about his planned conference with Lazarus.

"Are you a tourist?" she asked as their drinks arrived. Her eyes told Vincent to help himself. He obliged.

"Yes. I'm traveling with my daughter," he automatically added– and realized his error._ Why did I say that to a pretty woman's who's prospecting me?_

But she seemed impervious to the admission. "Ah. Visiting Rome?"

"Yes. We also have relatives here." _Leastways Danielle does._ "We might visit them if we have time." _Not if I can help it, though._ "You?"

"I originally lived in Paris. I wanted a change of scenery, so I toured Europe and even America for a while. Italy suited me, so I rented an apartment in Rome, got a job and stayed. Best decision I've ever made in my life."

"I'm glad to hear that. What's your line of work?"

"I work with handicapped and abused children." Her smile turned foxy. "We rehabilitate their bodies and give them new lives."

Vincent barely kept his smiling composure. Mireille's answer sounded a bit too much like the Handsome Men's own euphemism for their cyborg program.

_It couldn't be…_

Maybe he was being too suspicious. God knew there were more than enough orphanages and welfare centers in this country. But he couldn't get rid of that gnawing uncertainty at the back of his head.

"What's the name of the place you work in?" Vincent cautiously asked.

"It's called the Social Welfare Service."

And there it was. This woman was telling him who she was, who she worked for. In effect, she was saying: _you know who we are. We know who you are._

But his mission orders were clear. And maybe she was just casting about and got a lucky guess. A shot in the dark, yes, but any chance he could get–

"What's that?" Vincent asked.

"Let's be frank." Those emerald eyes were penetratingly bright and beginning to be unfriendly. "You are Vincent of the Americans' Handsome Men. I'm Mireille Bouquet of Section Two of the Political Warfare Division, your organization's Italian counterpart."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." This while slowly reaching for the M9 Beretta in his clothing, just in case.

"You don't have to. But–" Vincent felt something hard press into his rib cage. He knew it was a gun. The woman had it aimed on him all along.

"You don't have the luxury of disbelief," Mireille told him matter-of-factly.

* * *

**  
**Claes found her orders a font of delicious irony. _She makes it sound like putting a gun to a man's head isn't provocative. Well, Mireille is my commander. A good soldier follows orders and protects her commander in any way she can._

"Please do not move," she politely ordered both the American and his cyborg. Her VP-70's muzzle rested upon Lazarus' foramen magnum, the hole where the spinal cord slotted into the skull. A bullet there would instantly kill. Claes hoped, as did Mireille, that it wouldn't have to come to that, that the mere suggestion was enough.

The Japanese girl froze. So Mireille **had** guessed it right. A cyborg could be distracted given the proper bait– and dissuaded with the right proposal.

"Move your hand away from your gun," Claes ordered her American-built counterpart. Her spectacles were tucked away in a side pocket. _If they only knew what this means…_

The girl did as ordered. Claes suppressed a sigh of relief– and a smile.

Sunlight glinted off glass and metal from the rooftop of a five-story apartment building two hundred feet down the street. That would be Rico drawing a bead on the American-employed, Japanese cyborg's forehead. At this range the Dragunov's big 7.62mm slugs could punch through even the durable material encasing a mechanical body's skull. And Rico was a dead shot.

Henrietta was apologizing in melodious Italian and broken English. Not a good liar, that innate honesty made her all the more convincing– a fact that seemed to distress 'Etta all the more.

Claes paused in mid-consideration. _Mireille is starting to affect me as well._

The American cyborg watched both Italian junior agents for an opening she could use. Her handler stopped her with a glance, though.

"You are from Section Two?" he asked in English.

Claes nodded.

"Stand down, Yuki," the man told his cyborg. "They aren't enemies. Return to your current mission."

Yuki obediently did as ordered, sitting herself very rigidly and fixing her gaze anew upon Maria's– but not before glancing rather coldly at Henrietta.

'Etta looked downcast.

"My name," the man said, "Is Lazarus. This is Yuki."

"I am Claes. My friend is Henrietta. Secure your gun, 'Etta." She hid her own gun and passed Lazarus a handheld radio. "My superior, Jean, wishes to talk to you."

"Understood. Your English is excellent."

"I have a good teacher."

* * *

**  
**Hillshire sneezed.

Ignoring him, Triela swept the litter-strewn alley with her eyes and shotgun. She took good care to keep her weapon pointed at the ground. Their orders were explicit. Do not provoke the American cyborg. Convince her that they were allies.

_She's somewhere here. I'm sure of it. I can feel it._

_Come out, come out, wherever you are…_

**  
**Danielle hunkered deeper into her hiding place. It was all she could do not to drop her weapon and hold her hands to her ears in an attempt to block out her hunters' words.

"We're with Section Two," the man said aloud in English. His accent was British, refined and cultured. "We're Italy's counterpart to your organization. We don't mean you any harm. We want to help."

His partner remained silent and watchful.

Danielle tried not to shudder. Not since that dark and stormy night years ago had she felt this– helpless? No. More like futile. Her family– for that was what Vincent was to her, was he not? The same with Yuki and all the other girls who were her friends– was in danger once more. And here she was, cybernetically enhanced, magnificently trained and heavily armed– but completely unable to do anything about the threat.

She felt the dark side of her, the berserker within, rousing speedily. She shivered. Her fingers tightened around the pistol grip of her customized P90. Her whole body tethered on the precipice of violent rage.

And then Vincent's words came back to her in a rush.

**  
"Stand by and watch out. Keep yourself hidden until I give the word or you spot Colt attempting to escape."**

**  
**_Vincent…_

She trusted his judgment. She believed in him. She loved him. For his sake, furiously but silently, she fought down her darker self.

_Go away, go away, go away, go away, just go away and leave me alone…_

The Italian Team passed her hiding place without giving it a second glance. In minutes their footsteps slowly faded away into the distance.

Still Danielle did not dare breathe in relief.

_Who are they? What's happening?_

_Vincent? Are you all right?

* * *

_

**  
**"Is this any way to treat a friend and ally?" Vincent testily asked, Mireille's Walther nuzzling a spot between his fifth and sixth floating ribs.

"You illegally entered Italy with faked passports. You brought unregistered deadly weapons– your guns and girls– with you. You are conducting a secret mission on Italian soil without the knowledge of, and permission from, the Italian government, military and police forces." Mireille's eyes and tone were bleak. "Is that the way a friend and ally acts?"

"I have my orders." He noted, though, that she called the Handsome Men cyborgs 'girls'. _She sees them as children, too?_

"So do I. Four Fratello teams and a support team are emplaced around this bar." Vincent whistled in admiration at the massed firepower. Rare and big was the op that saw a comparable number of Handsome Men Teams. Then he realized that the bear the Italians were loaded for was him and his teammates. That dampened his amusement.

"We can lock this area down and eliminate all threats once I give the signal. The question is," Mireille stated without any hint of rancor, "Are we going to have to take you down as well, or will you cooperate with us?"

One of the first lessons Vincent learned as a leader is that he was always alone. Responsibility for his teammates' lives and his mission's success completely rested on his shoulders. If he agreed to Mireille's "offer", this would become Section Two's victory. Refusing–

No. He couldn't gamble with Danielle's life for the sake of pride. He wasn't Leon. He did not risk his ward unnecessarily. He loved her too much for both their good.

He looked into Mireille's eyes and discovered a protective sentiment similar to his own. _She's a handler, too. She knows. She cares._

"All right, we'll do it your way."

Vincent felt the steely muzzle move away from his ribs. Feeling the need for a display of aplomb, he took up his untouched glass. "Cheers on that?"

Mireille toasted him. Her smile's warmth became honest. "You should have told us from the beginning." She sipped her drink.

"No arguing that. But would you have let us?"

"That is for my superiors to decide."

"Same here." _Same all over the world._

"So who are you after?"

"See the American in the back? The man wearing a trench coat in the middle of summer?"

Very casually, Mireille looked over her shoulder.

**  
**Colt felt no anxiety at being eyeballed by the sexy blonde beside the American handler. (Though he thought she looked a tad bit familiar.) In fact he felt rather pleased and sort of hoped his companion noticed the attention. Jealousy was always a nice way to spice up a relationship– though the girl in question proved pretty lethal when it came to such emotions.

His partner, however, went cold upon meeting those painfully familiar green eyes.

**  
**Mireille stood up in shock at seeing the apparition seated not fifteen feet away.

_No. It can't be._

Yet there stood the girl with the red hair and green eyes, similarly astonished, also half-poised to flee. The girl she and Kirika fought several times up until the final battle in The Manor– a bloody climax cut short by the very same man who stood beside her. The girl who called herself True Noir.

"Chloe?"

**  
**"Fuck!"

Colt only now recognized the blonde as one of those Noir women he'd run into at the Manor back when he came for Chloe. _I thought she was in France or something._

_Shit had just hit the fan. Time for Escape Plan C._

He stood up, pointed at the blonde and the American, and yelled in badly accented Italian: "Polizei!"

Everyone inside the bar stared at him, and then at his two startled suspects, who stared back.

"Polizia!" Colt hoped he got the Italian word for 'police' right. "Polizai! Cops! Carbine or something! You hear me!" He mimicked a siren's sound. "Here to shoot you!"

Eyebrows rose. Heads shook in confusion and derision. Chloe was no help, her attention locked on the blonde.

_Ah, fuck,_ Colt decided,_ I think they all think I'm the typical crazy American…_

Speaking of Americans, the handler at the bar turned with his hands held up. "Hey, I don't know what this is, but I'm sure this is all a big misunderstanding–"

And then Colt saw the familiar shape sticking partway out of the bag of the woman beside his enemy, and found his opening.

"**GUN!"**

It didn't matter that he yelled the English word and not the Italian word. Someone looked. Someone always did. Not all the wolves Peter yelled about were imaginary.

Four dozen eyes widened upon sighting the Walther. That it was partly inside the bag failed to register in panicked or threatened minds.

"_Pistoli!"_

_Note to self,_ Colt mentally indulged: _Gun equals _pistoli_ here._

Half the bar's patrons made to bolt. The other half pulled out an assortment of semiautomatics and a few machine pistols.

The blonde woman snapped out of her trance and athletically vaulted over the countertop in a flash of red and black, firing over her shoulder. The American hurried after her as every Mafia button man and three minor Padania agents in the bar opened fire.

The bartender, polishing a glass to mirror sheen, stood his ground, unmindful of the lethal hail of steel flying around him.

Meanwhile Colt hauled the unresponsive Chloe to the nearest double-paned window. "Come on, woman! We're getting out of here!"

"She's here," was all the cryptically uninformative babble he got from her. Colt slung her unresisting body onto his right shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. He kicked the windows open. _Maybe three feet down to the street below,_ he judged. _Safe enough._

Colt jumped.

**  
**_Corsica's daughter– here? Then– is **she** here, too, then? That child? Noir?_

Chloe smiled dreamily.

_Kirika…_

**  
**Vincent fired blindly over the counter with his Beretta. "What the hell," he demanded of Mireille, "Was that all about?"

"I should be asking that question!" The blonde quickly reloaded. "Why didn't you warn me about his partner?"

"His **partner**? We were after Crazy Horse! The **man**! We don't know who the woman with him is!"

"Does the name True Noir ring a bell?"

"True What? What's that?"

"I'll tell you later! Now!"

Mireille and Vincent popped out of hiding, sighted and fired in near synch. Their targets went down.

A double-paned window at the far end was open. Neither Chloe nor Colt was in sight.

Swearing at their marks' escape, the two handlers ducked behind the counter. The wall behind them burst apart a second later. Chips of stone and wood peppered them.

"Shit!" Vincent snarled.

Incredibly, the bartender was still working on a new set of glasses despite the gunfight raging about him.

Mireille hit her earplug. "Jean! My cover's blown! We're under fire! Send 'Etta in!"

"Danny!" Vincent barked into his own handheld radio over the gunfire. "I need back-up! I'm pinned down behind the counter!"

**  
**The gunfight raging inside the building overpowered the sound of the stampeding crowd fleeing Maria's. Panicking people shoved aside the startled guards at the entrance. The two men cursed and turned to look inside.

Rather, one succeeded in turning. The other was about to do so when an eight-millimeter-wide hollow point bullet traveling at a substantial fraction of the speed of sound hit the side of his head with a wet smack.

The bullet's soft lead tip expanded upon impacting the man's skull before fragmenting. Shards of bone and lead tore through grey matter. The shot had enough power to twist his neck the wrong way, spinning him as he fell, already dead.

**  
**It was her first kill with her new VSS Vintorez precision marksman rifle. Rico did not bother celebrating. She emotionlessly tracked the second hostile and squeezed the trigger.

Second kill.

**  
**Jean confirmed the death of the second guard through the scope of Rico's Dragunov, which he manned as a failsafe. _And here I wondered how useful an 8mm rifle round is._ The Dragunov's high-powered bullet could have easily punched through their targets with enough force to injure or kill noncombatants.

He just barely caught the small form darting through fleeing patrons, past the dead men and into Maria's.

_Hold on, Mireille. The cavalry's there._

**  
**An empty Amati case clattered behind her. The P90 was out, armed and searching for targets. One thought dominated Henrietta's mind: her handler was in danger.

_Miss Mireille!_

**  
**Danielle threw her small, tough body against the rickety door. Termite-infested hardwood shattered. The girl hurtled into the kitchen, teeth gritted, submachine gun up and searching for targets.

The chef was big, well over six feet and not five steps away. He wielded a huge butcher knife with expertise. Hesitating only slightly, he swung at Danielle's head with the cleaver. The girl ducked and then dropped him with a ten-round burst in his broad chest.

The rest of the kitchen crew ran for their lives. Danielle followed them through the twin swinging doors leading into the bar. Ahead were heavy gunfire, hoarse yelling and Vincent.

**  
**Twenty feet directly forward of the main entrance was the embattled, bullet-marked counter. Henrietta spotted Mireille dragging a man down with her behind it. To her left and right, a score of gunmen busily blasted away. No one noticed the new, lethal arrival.

It was a rare position salivated upon by many a battlefield tactician: a powerful force poised at the rear area of an unsuspecting enemy.

Cold, deadly fury seized Henrietta. _You're not going to hurt Miss Mireille!_ She flicked her P90 to full automatic and raked the left side of the room. She ripped apart five men. The survivors turned on her.

"_Also, don't block. Dodge. Don't stop moving. Use the terrain. Keep nice big things between you and your enemy."_

_Yes, Miss Mireille._ Henrietta dove to her left. Behind the battered table she picked as a hiding place, a startled Mafia man was halfway in his turn. She exploded his face with a two-second burst and shoved his corpse aside.

The P90's transparent ammo clip showed five bullets remaining. She slammed home a new clip. Shots thudded against her wooden shelter.

Automatic fire kicked off screams of pain and death. The long burst sounded suspiciously like her P90. _Who's that?_

**  
**She didn't know it, but Danielle was lucky. Her charge had herded the kitchen crew ahead into their deaths. Soon as the half dozen or so panicked men came through the swinging doors, they drew heavy fire from a host of machine pistols and semiautomatics, itchy trigger-fingers deciding it was better safe than sorry.

The defenders were still reloading when Danielle, having hesitated in her headlong rush, what with the way blocked by the fleeing men, finally tore through the shattered doors. She cut down three surprised gunmen, dropped on one knee and killed a fourth. Gun muzzles hastily aimed at her.

A **second** P90 snarled. Men died or wavered, unable to decide which target to engage.

Danielle rolled behind a table, only to pop out and let loose again.

Vincent and a blonde woman Danielle didn't recognize rose from behind the counter, pistols blazing.

Bullets from three different directions killed Mafia gunmen where they stood or hid. In seconds the room was clear of hostiles.

Something metallic rolled from a dying man's hand. The blond woman spotted it.

"Grenade!" Followed by the Italian equivalent: "Granata!"

Everyone still alive ducked behind something solid and held on for their lives.

A terrible roar shook their small corner of the world. The concussion shattered windows and sent chairs flying.

A deathly stillness of cordite powder settled across Maria's.

"Everyone all right?" a woman's voice stridently inquired. She added something in Italian that ended with "Henrietta?"

"_Si, Miss Mireille!" _a small voice piped up as reply.

Danielle blinked. _Who are they? And that voice– it sounds familiar…_

"Danielle?" a familiar voice called out.

Her heart leapt. _Vincent is all right!_ "I'm okay, Vincent!"

"Good. All enemies down?"

She swept the room with both eyes and gun. "Yes!"

"Everyone, secure your weapons." The woman switched to Italian. The hidden girl acknowledged her order in the same language.

"Do what she says," Vincent added aloud for Danielle's benefit, knowing his ward wouldn't follow anyone else's orders.

Danielle immediately safed her P90. "I'm safed, Vincent." She noticed movement, turned to look at the emerging, fellow gunslinger girl.

**  
**Henrietta, crouched against the heavy table, listened to Mireille say something in a foreign language, probably English. "You okay, Henrietta?" her handler asked her in Italian.

"Yes, Miss Mireille! Are you all right?"

"Wasn't even scratched, would you believe it? Are there any enemies left?"

She closed her eyes and listened for any breathing or heartbeat aside from hers and Mireille's. Henrietta detected three. Two of them right next to her handler. The other's heartbeat thumped rather like a cyborg's– like Henrietta, for example. Or, on a grimmer note that made her grip her P90 tight, Giuseppe's.

"There are three people. Two are beside you. The third is a cyborg–"

"The cyborg is on our side. She's your American equivalent."

Meanwhile a man and a girl conversed in emotional English. Henrietta wondered who they were.

Mireille said something in English to the man, who replied in the same language. Henrietta felt left out and quite envious. _When we get home, I'm going to ask Mr. Hillshire to really teach me English._

"Henrietta," her handler finally said, "Secure your weapon."

"Yes, Miss Mireille." Done, she stood up.

**  
**Danielle gasped.

**  
**Henrietta caught her breath.

**  
**They looked exactly alike.

* * *

_In anime, the family relationships devolved into bloodthirsty rivalry most of the time. In real life… well._

Next on **_Life Goes On_:** Familia **(Family)**.


	19. Familia

"I'm surprised you offered to let the Americans lodge here."

"I'm surprised they **agreed** to let one of their cyborgs to **stay** here."

"Vincent's a good man."

"He reminds me of my brother."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"It depends."

"Well, for me, it's a good thing. Danielle and Henrietta get along very well."

"Call it the spirit of intra-service service cooperation."

"Keep your friends in front of you and within arm's reach?"

"If you would have it **that** way…"

"You never change, Jean. And here I never thought we would use 'Etta's new room again."

"We did have the door repaired. It would be a shame to waste the money."

"Oh, yes. Triela's temper back then was spectacular."

"It was. I told Hilshire to properly discipline her."

"And what did Hilshire say?"

"He said he was going to increase in her conditioning."

They both knew that Hilshire had no intention of forcing his ward to change. And neither Mireille nor Jean minded.

All was right in the world.

**  
Life Goes On**

**  
Note:** Text in **""** are said over the radio. Italicized text denotes thought. Bold text emphasizes certain words.

**  
Disclaimer:** _Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. The Handsome Men and Jeremy Colt are courtesy **Person With Many Aliases**, who gave me permission to use them. I highly recommend you read up his work with the same title to get a better feel out of them.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**  
Nineteen**

_Familia_

(Family)

**  
**Two days earlier…

They looked exactly alike.

Or not. There were immediate, noticeable differences. Danielle's hair was longer and tied in thick ponytails, and Henrietta was taller by half a dozen inches and arguably dressed better.

Yet their hair was almost the exact same red-brown and their eyes the same shade of soft brown. They shared the same small, cute heart-shaped face that seemed purpose-built to appeal to people's compassion. Looked so much alike, they could have been mistaken as twins at all but point blank range, and sisters at any distance. They even carried the same primary weapon– though Danny's P90 had a custom pistol grip while Etta's retained the standard one.

So Henrietta stared and Danielle stared back, both girls thinking the same thing: _she looks like me._

Their handlers shared their stupefaction. Mireille and Vincent silently stared at their wards, then at each other, then again at their wards.

"Ah, 'Etta," Mireille slowly said in Italian while gesturing to the man beside her, "This is Vincent. That girl," she pointed, "Is–"

"Danielle," the slightly dazed Vincent helpfully supplied.

"Danielle. Yes." Mireille switched to English. "Vincent, Danielle, this is Henrietta, my partner."

"Hi," Vincent tried.

The adults were– politely and kindly, but also completely– ignored.

**  
**

**  
**"Henrietta. My name is Henrietta."

She said it in melodically flowing Italian. Her opposite number nodded. "I'm Danielle."

**  
**

**  
**"Am I missing something here?" Vincent, not being very fluent at Italian, asked as bright beams blossomed upon the girls' faces.

"Not much," Mireille told him with a smile of her own.

**  
**

**  
**No smiles for Jean Croce. The blond man donned his sternest look and armed his harshest tone. His English was nearly perfect, concise and sharp.

"Your presence here is a violation of international laws. Your mission here is an insult to my country's sovereignty and my service's capabilities. And your audacity to bring cyborg weapons borders on the criminal."

The Handsome Men handlers were not accustomed to being on the receiving end of a tongue-lashing. Adding an additional spice of danger was that both groups' cyborgs were present, armed and very overprotective.

The blonde Italian in the suit looked the Americans over as if they were the very terrorists he loathed. "If it were up to me," Jean said grimly, "You would never be heard of again."

Danielle bristled at that remark. Yuki eyed Jean. Rico shifted her position to meet any attack on her handler head-on. Henrietta, Claes and Triela prepared to break up any potential hostility.

"That said," and here Jean's frosty blue eyes lightened some, "Since there is no official record of you having entered Italy, and since there is no solid evidence of your presence here, you are not here, and thus you cannot be charged with breaking any laws.

"Welcome to Rome."

**  
**

**  
**"And this is my Mateba." Danielle proudly displayed said monster Magnum auto-revolver. Henrietta, Rico and Angelica obliged with an outpouring of oohs and ahhs.

At first Danny had fiercely resisted the idea of separating with Vincent. She complained and wailed and wept. Threw the mother of all tantrums. Their audience of Italians, French, Scandinavian, Dutch and Corsican privately enjoyed their American comrade's trouble. Rather mean, true, but it **was** funny.

"They're like a young father and a spoiled daughter," Mireille thought aloud.

"Like my brother and Henrietta," was Jean's comparison.

"'Etta isn't spoiled…"

"You haven't seen her that way yet."

Somehow Triela kept her commentary to herself, which Hilshire appreciated.

Henrietta's solution was elegantly simple. "Danielle? Would you like to sleep over at my room?"

Her doppelganger took all of two seconds to agree.

Rico generously moved into the refurbished bedroom that until recently housed a recovering Henrietta. Meanwhile Yuki remained with Vincent and Lazarus to provide security. She declined any offer to stay over with her Italian comrades-in-arms, though she didn't mind visiting the Section Two warehouse.

The sleepover was great fun. The other Italian girls dropped by at various times to say hello. Claes and Triela brought gifts of tea, cakes and biscuits. Petrushka put on a theatrical one-girl performance worthy of Broadway. Rico escorted Angelica both during the first visit in the evening and this morning.

By now Angie had received the full benefit of Henrietta's second-generation conditioning drug and Petrushka's second generation cybernetic parts. No longer wheelchair-bound, she could now walk on her own again. Rico was very solicitous of her friend and kept close to her at all times.

"It's so big," the awed Angie murmured as she ran her hands upon the massive revolver.

"Vincent customized it so that it looks like Vash the Stampede's Turn Gun," Danielle loftily explained.

Rico blinked. "Vash the Stampede? Is he an American commando?"

"No," Danielle primly corrected, "He's the hero from Trigun."

"What's Trigun?" Henrietta asked. "An American counterterrorist team?"

"It's an anime…"

"What's anime?" two Italians and a French girl asked aloud.

"You mean to say you don't know what anime is?" Danielle wallowed in disbelief. "Under what rock have you three been living lately?"

Henrietta blushed, Rico smiled sheepishly and Angie innocently asked if The Powerpuff Girls, whose Italian translation she occasionally watched on her hospital room's cable-supplied TV, counted.

"Looks like I'll have to educate you girls the hard way," Danielle grumbled.

**  
**

**  
**Yuki stared.

The entire wall was a bookcase. Books of every cover conceivable filled every square inch of it. All clamored for her attention, asked for her favor, demanded to be read and enjoyed.

For the first time since becoming a cyborg, Yuki felt rather light-headed– and without the slightest dose of conditioning to account for it.

Beside her, Claes smiled. "I thought that you might like books. Feel free to borrow any of them. Consider it an elaborate apology for my earlier unpleasantness."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

**  
**

**  
**Mireille was puzzled. She and Henrietta earlier agreed to spend some extra hours at the firing range this afternoon. But there had been no sight of her ward at any of her usual hangouts. Not her room, not the corridors, not Claes and Triela's room or Claes' reading room. Worse, no one knew.

She found Vincent wandering about a corridor while sporting a similar troubled look. "Miss Mireille? Have you seen Danielle? We were supposed to meet up today."

"No. 'Etta's gone, too. There isn't anyone in her room."

A huffy Marco appeared out of a side corridr. "Have any of you seen Angelica?"

Mireille shook her head. Vincent shrugged.

"Rico took her along to Henrietta's room a couple of hours ago," Marco grumbled. "They haven't come back yet."

"Didn't you say there was no one at Henrietta's room?" Vincent asked Mireille.

"Yes."

Three handlers exchanged looks of sudden comprehension almost bordering on horror.

**  
**

**  
**Yuki being preoccupied with a certain infamous book written by an equally infamous author, Claes was free to use the laptop computer recently provided by Mireille. She found her online friend eager for conversation.

**  
Claes:** Hello, Black.

**Black: **Hey, Claes.

**  
**

**  
**Jean was poring through a sheaf of documents sent by Mr. Superior, the Handsome Men's boss, when he noticed Amadeo skulking about the corridor like a seasoned infantryman canvassing hostile terrain for enemy ambushers.

_Huh?_

**  
**The hunt for the missing Fratello quickly expanded in scope. Priscilla, Amadeo, Alfonso, Olga and Bianchi were drafted into the searchers' ranks. The agents combed through the base for any sign of the missing girls. None were found.

Finally, desperation beginning to get the better of her, Mireille went to the firing range. She found Triela and Hilshire– and a clue to the location of the missing girls.

"Wasn't Henrietta with that new girl?" Triela asked her handler. "The one who looked like a younger version of her?"

Hilshire nodded. "Rico and Angie were with them as well. They were heading for one of the conference rooms, I think."

"Suspiciously, too," Triela added. "That new girl was hiding something. You might want to hurry, Miss Mireille. I wouldn't put it past those four to get into trouble."

"Thanks for the info. By the way, Hilshire," Mireille wondered, unable to help herself, "Have you upped Triela's conditioning yet?"

Hilshire gave her a bland look. "I have not the slightest idea of what you are talking about."

Though Triela faced away, Mireille thought she saw the girl grin.

**  
**

**  
**Four small, shivering forms clung to each other and held their breaths as the hideous, horse-headed, bat-winged monster opened its fanged maw to screech at them in ravenous hunger.

"What's this?" archly asked a strident voice that rose above the monster's scream.

The girls shrieked and tumbled into each other's arms.

The lights flashed on. "Miss Mireille!" Henrietta exclaimed.

Seeing four cyborg assassins huddling together like the startled little children they should be caused Mireille to chuckle. "And here everyone was worrying themselves sick over you girls..."

"We weren't doing anything bad!" Danielle, obviously the leader of this little gathering, protested for her companions.

"I can see that. But Chief Lorenzo and Jean won't approve of you girls using the conference room's equipment to watch cartoons."

"It's not a cartoon! It's anime!"

Danielle's companions vociferously echoed her argument. Even Henrietta–darling, loyal 'Etta– turned traitor.

"If you're going to watch a movie," Mireille suggested when the furor died down, "We have a TV and DVD player in the lounge. You can watch there."

"But…"

"No 'buts'."

The girls stared with eyes that were suddenly huge and watery. Mireille couldn't help but smile at the flood of cute pleading directed her way. She tried to fix them a patented "Jean Croce Stare Of Disapproval", but failed to suppress the twinkle in her eyes.

"Danielle. Henrietta. Rico. Angelica."

Four heads drooped with disappointment. "Yes, Miss Mireille…"

"And you'll also have to apologize to your handlers for causing them to worry so much. Except for you, Rico. Don't tell Jean a word. He'll get angry."

"Yes, Miss Mireille…"

**  
**

**  
**Marco was beside himself with relief. Also rightfully angry in a fatherly way. "They hid from us to watch a **cartoon**?"

"Anime." Vincent, the youngest in the gathering of adults save perhaps for Priscilla, was quite sheepish. "Blood: The Last Vampire is a fairly old anime movie. I bought it for Danielle a month ago. I thought she'd already watched it. Guess not."

"Vampires." Marco snorted. "How banal..."

"No more banal than, say, a dragon," Olga reminded the creator of The Prince of Pasta.

"My stories are better than some **cartoon**."

"Anime," Vincent corrected.

"They're all the same!"

"Aw, come on, Marco," Amadeo suggested. "Angie needs to watch new things every now and then. Hearing the same story over and over again will bore her to tears."

Marco's gaze was as frosty and hostile as Antarctica. Nearby, Bianchi was failing to contain a broad grin.

"Well, they seem to be enjoying it," Alfonso noted, "As is **someone** who should be acting like the grown-up she is."

**  
**In the lounge, the girls and Priscilla all squealed and hugged each other as the onscreen menace lunged at them.

**  
**

**  
**Heading back to their hotel, Lazarus finally noticed the book Yuki possessively held to her body. "Is that a book?"

"Yes. Claes lent it to me."

"That was kind of her. What's the title?"

"Lolita."

**  
**

**  
**Triela yelped.

"What's the matter?" Hilshire asked.

"I bit my tongue."

"Someone must be talking about you."

**  
**

**  
**Evening fell upon the former monastery.

Jean sat back to consider the dossier– and its contents' implication for one redhead girl.

_The atheists ask if God exists. Here is proof of Him– and His appreciation of irony._

**  
TOP SECRET**

**Handsome Men**

**Personnel Dossier**

"**Danielle"**

**  
**_"…survivor of a grisly robbery-murder-rape of an Italian family… somehow survived despite receiving critical gunshot wounds … her sister was even more severely injured and further raped… uterus cut out… cultists were deemed the likeliest culprits…"_

**  
**_Giuseppe, my brother… What do you think of this?_

Then and there, Jean Croce knew he would do anything in his power just to make sure that Danielle and Henrietta never became anything like him– or his brother.

**  
**

**  
**"Shopping?"

"'Etta–" Vincent saw firsthand that Mireille's mode of addressing Henrietta was infectious. "–and Miss Mireille invited us." Danny put on a pleading face. "Can we, Vincent?"

He made a show of thinking it over. Seeing his ward's hopeful face, however, was persuasion enough. Plus Mireille and 'Etta– _she even got to me_, Vincent wryly thought–were waiting.

"Well, we haven't done any shopping here yet, anyway. Besides, Lazarus is going over the mission details with Jean, and he's better at that than me. So I think we do have some time to spare."

The double whoops of delight deafened the adults.

**  
**

**  
**Henrietta and Danielle wore identical light blue sundresses and sandals.

After admiring his ward's undeniable cuteness, then staring at Henrietta's similar garb, Vincent gave their dresser a rather strange look.

"I couldn't help myself," Mireille admitted with an almost wicked glee quite unlike her. "I just **had** to dress them alike…"

_Women,_ Vincent glumly told himself.

He drove them to the department store in a Fiat. They parked nearby and let the girls go ahead. The handlers noted that their wards held hands while walking. Almost like siblings– though it was the smaller, younger Danielle leading Henrietta around instead of the other way around.

"Oh! What pretty girls!" A stout woman with a faded but kind face waddled over to the matched pair. "Hello, my dears. You must be sisters."

The two girls exchanged confused looks.

"Ah," began Danny.

"Well," 'Etta stuttered.

The matron gave the approaching Vincent and Mireille a curious look. "Are you two these fine children's parents?"

Vincent gagged, and then blushed, at the suggestion. Mireille was made of sterner stuff. She smiled back. "No, ma'am. We're their guardians. They're orphans."

"Oh, terrible, how terrible! The poor dears? May I?"

"Of course."

The woman promptly rumpled the girls' hair. "You're so sweet and pretty!" She sniffed. "Pupa! Your guardians must be spoiling you two pretty."

It was Mireille's turn to eye Vincent. "I buy it from an import shop," the American explained after the matron left. "Danny seems to like it. Why?"

"It's the exact same perfume that 'Etta's old handler buys for her."

Vincent blinked. "Old handler?"

"It's a long story."

"Well," he said as the department store entrance approached, "We have enough time for it."

**  
**

**  
**While Henrietta and Danielle tried on various articles of clothing nearby, Mireille tutored Vincent in the finer points of selecting girl's clothes. Among other things, the lesson involved dragging him into various places he would rather not even think of entering– such as the women's lingerie section.

"Do you **have** to drag me **here**, Mireille?"

"You have to know what Danny's sizes are so that the clothes you buy for her fit her comfortably," Mireille candidly lectured while rifling through a rack of cute children's underwear. "The ones you gave her are a bit tight, or so 'Etta tells me."

He could not exactly argue with that, being busy looking for something to look at aside from flimsy cotton and sleek silk. He settled for his white-and-red Nikes. He nearly lifted his head in surprise, though, at Mireille's revelation. "Wait. Henrietta told you about **what**?"

"Danny told 'Etta. 'Etta told me. That's why 'Etta wanted Danny to come with us today. 'Etta wanted to get Danny nice ones."

"Danny never tells **me**…"

Mireille glanced at him. "It's not exactly something a girl can tell a man. Even if he **is** her **handler**."

Vincent felt so ignorant, inadequate, embarrassed and **male**.

The women who did notice his presence only smiled or giggled at him. "Aren't they offended to see a man here?" he asked.

"They probably think you're my boyfriend," Mireille nonchalantly explained.

That made him blush.

"They also believe that a man accompanying his girlfriend into the women's clothing section is very gentlemanly. A 'turn-on', as you Americans would call it."

Vincent blushed even more than humanly possible.

"Ah. Here you go." Mireille carried a good number of girl's underwear in her arms. "Have Danny try these on."

"Can you give them to her for me?" Vincent's gaze was nailed to the ceiling now. "I'd rather not be arrested…"

"Oh. Sorry about that. I've never gone shopping with a man before."

Vincent wondered if Mireille was doing this to him intentionally and if anyone else shared his inadequacy.

**  
**

**  
**"Hey, Hilshire! What's up?"

"Priscilla. I need advice."

"On what?"

"Clothes."

"Oh? For whom?"

"Triela."

"What kind of clothes?"

"…"

"Hmm? What was that?"

Big hands gestured stiffly as a squarish jaw worked up and down.

"Hilshire, I can understand English, Italian, French and German. I can't translate sign language."

**  
**

**  
**Jean met the happy party on their return to the base. "I have an important matter to discuss with you," he told Mireille and Vincent.

The girls went ahead to their shared room– but not before Henrietta asked Jean if she and Danielle could go to the rooftop of the base's tallest building later. Jean's cold blue eyes had glistened for the briefest moment. He agreed.

He also dismissed Rico for the day. "Take a break," he told his cyborg. "You've earned it." The blonde girl happily accompanied her friends.

Jean brought his fellow handlers to his office. He locked the door.

"What's so important that you sent Rico away?" Mireille asked.

He told them everything.

**  
**

**  
**They sat beside each other under the cool night sky at the very spot where Giuseppe took Henrietta to watch the stars. There were no clouds and no moon. This far out from Rome, artificial lights could not spoil their view.

"This place is very nice," Danielle murmured.

"I'm glad you liked it," Henrietta happily told her.

"Of course, but what also I meant is that I like it here with you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. You. I like you a lot. It feels like we've know each other for so long."

"I feel the same way, too."

"Really, 'Etta?" The younger girl grinny. "I'm real happy to know we're very alike."

"Maybe that means we're soul mates."

"Soul mates?"

Henrietta nodded. "Miss Mireille told me that soul mates are people who have a very close and special relationship."

"Oh, you mean like Rico and Meir," Danny suggested, having heard of that legendary love affair perhaps a million times, the topic being a favorite way to tease Rico.

"Or Triela and Hilshire," 'Etta joked.

They enjoyed heart laughs at that last example before resuming their quiet watch of the stars. Henrietta pointed. "That's Polaris. The North Star. It's at the end of the Big Dipper constellation. And that's Orion, the Hunter. And that small group of stars is the Pleiades."

"You sure know everything about the stars, Henrietta," Danielle murmured in awe.

"Not really. Giuseppe taught me most of what I know."

"Giuseppe?"

"He was my first handler. He died."

Dannielle started at that revelation. But Henrietta wasn't unhappy. "He told me to be happy even without him," she added without rancor or pain. "I am."

"I'm real glad for you. I don't think I can do that if I lost Vincent."

"I think you can. I have Miss Mireille and my friends. You have your own friends. They're our families."

"Familia," both girls breathed. _Family._

**  
**"Impossible," Mireille breathed.

"Improbable," Jean corrected, "But still possible."

"But," Vincent began.

"Is it a bad thing they met?"

No one answered. There was no need to say the obvious.

**  
**"'Etta?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think Miss Mireille likes Vincent? She seems to tease him a lot. From what I understand, people tease other people because they like them."

"Oh, no. Don't worry, Danny. Miss Mireille already likes **Jean**."

"No way!"

"Really!"

And the night wore on.

Life goes on.

**  
**Old friends meet again for what the diplomats flowerily refer to as "a confluence of interests". Next on _**Life Goes On**_ Proposta **(Proposition)**.


	20. Proposta

The man in black and the eleven-year-old girl watched the storming of Maria's Heavenly Brewery from the anonymous safety of their rented room's curtained window two stories above and not fifteen meters distant across the street.

"Can you see the sniper, Elena?"

"Not yet, Sensei... Wait! There! On top of that apartment! Maybe fifty meters away from us. There are two of them. An adult and a girl."

They talked in Italian, the girl's native tongue. The man had mastered the language and spoke without any discernible accent.

"Do you think they can see you?"

"No."

"Can you hit them from here with your bow?"

"Sensei! I thought we were just observing them!"

"We are. But just in case–"

"I don't think so, Sensei. They're several stories higher than we are and pretty well enfiladed– I mean, **de**filaded. It'll be very difficult."

"Just as I thought. Good call, Elena. You should always know to argue with me if you think you're correct."

She blushed. "Thank you, Sensei."

"You're welcome. Now, let's see if we can follow Flopsy and Mopsy back to their burrow…"

* * *

**  
Life Goes On**

**  
Note:** Text in **""** are said over the radio. Italicized text denotes thought. Bold text emphasizes certain words.

**  
Disclaimer:**_Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. The Handsome Men and Jeremy Colt are courtesy **Person With Many Aliases**, and Mr. Gray is owned by **Maxwell's Demon**. I highly recommend you read up their works to get a better feel out of them.

**  
Revamped Chronology:** This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**  
Twenty**

Proposta

(Proposition)

* * *

**  
**Colt and Chloe took half a day of paranoid backtracking and a host of evasive maneuvers to reach their hideout in relative safety. Colt was at the end of his temper but kept his mouth shut until certain they were safe and alone in their room. Then he blew up.

"What the Goddamned hell were you fucking thinking, woman? You could have fucking gotten us fucking killed!"

"Sorry, Jeremy…"

"Fucking sorry ain't fucking enough."

No cyborg had needed to assist his latest attempted flight out the windows. Colt barely felt his feet hit the ground before he started running. Chloe, slung over his big right shoulder like some kidnapped bride, offered no resistance, she was so slight of weight and stunned by the apparition she'd glimpsed. Somehow that ridiculously puffy beret perched on her head didn't fall off in the five whole blocks Colt sprinted before he tossed her into the back seat of a loitering taxicab.

"The Pizza Barcelona Something," the breathless man had yelled at the startled driver as he hopped in after his limp cargo.

"Piazza di Spagna," Chloe, recovered from her shock, translated. "Hurry."

They spent the forty-five minute ride to the inner city in huffy silence. Colt greedily sucked in air and muttered obscenities beneath his breath. Chloe, forlorn, stared outside the window, conjuring the image of the dark-haired girl bearing haunted crimson-brown eyes upon every street and shop their taxi passed.

The Piazza de Spagna was modestly populated despite the noon heat. The two assassins made their way through the crowd milling upon the white stone stairs of the world-renowned Spanish Steps. "Meet me at the usual in two," Colt grumbled before breaking away, the idea being to present possible pursuers with the complication of two targets going in different directions.

Chloe kept walking forward. Ghosts of That Child peeked out from behind the sheltering bodies of tourists and locals, teasing her, leading her on. Tireless feet carried her up the Spanish Steps, past the Obellisco Sallusttiao and into the church of Trinità dei Monti. Without knowing what she was doing, she joined a jostling group of tourists and pilgrims browsing Renaissance-era art and architecture. She stared without comment or feeling at Naldini's depictions of scenes from the life of John the Baptist, Volterra's moving _Deposition_ and _Assumption,_ frescoes begun by Del Vaga and finished by Taddeo Zuccari. The work of masters found nothing to stir in her distant, occupied heart. Life was dull and tasteless and meaningless.

Hours passed. She remembered her promised rendezvous but could not bringht herself to hurry. Trapped in her walking, waking reverie, unable to impose her will upon her body, possessed by a lethargy she never suspected existed within her. She drifted through a shuffling river of faceless, formless phantoms under the blazing heat of the Italian summer sun, one lost soul in an endless line marching to the nowhere of Purgatory on this sorry planet.

Somehow she made her way to the prearranged meeting spot, the Sant'Agnese in Agone, near Piazza Navona. There she found Colt cooling his boot heels besides the famous fountain. A tourist shirt advertising the renovated Coliseum had replaced his coat and hat. He retained the disguising dark shades and a sullen expression. He had been waiting for three hours past their agreed time.

Without a word he stormed off to get another cab. She mutely followed.

The safe house was a homely three-story apartment on the outermost edge of eastern Rome's suburban sprawl. Their room was on the second floor, fifth down the row. It was rectangular and modestly sized at fifteen feet by twenty feet, and, though well-tended, had been unoccupied for years. Chloe had hurriedly spruced it up for occupancy just days ago.

A simple bed fit for two pressed up against one wall. The door in the wall opposite it led to a small, clean bathroom that managed to squeeze in an enclosed shower, a tub and a toilet. Curtain-clad swinging windows faced the Vatican, the spiritual heart of the Eternal City and the Christian world. Furniture included a pair of grey plastic chairs and an old but comfy lounge sofa, a battered rectangular table and a closet. There were a few electric appliances: a small refrigerator stocked with perishables and drinks, a tinier TV, a radio and a lazily-turning ceiling fan.

Colt rummaged through the refrigerator for a couple cans of whatever the locals called beer. He plunked himself into the lone easy chair with a grunt, popped one can and gulped down the contents. "Fuck this shit."

Chloe sat on the bed with her knees hugged up to her chest in the manner of a lonely child. Her jade eyes burned into the wall across her vantage point. She could have been a lifelike statuette crafted by a master; she barely moved enough to register signs of life.

They remained in that standoff for two days. Neither paid any attention to the other, not wanting to be the first to back down in the war of wills. Professional pride and childish spite demanded the impasse.

Gradually Colt simmered down from fury to merely a tad more brusqueness than usual. He turned his attention to the radio or the TV, griping about the murderously stuffy weather and the lack of an air conditioner and the cold company he was stuck with: piss-poor beer and Antarctic Frenchwoman.

His opposite number likewise kept to her half of the room. Chloe hogged the bed save when using the bathroom or cooking meals. (Colt would then "steal" the bed and get some real shut-eye.) She saw and heard and felt a world separate from this one, one populated by just herself and the girl she adored.

The third night began like the previous two, save worse. Dirty laundry had piled up in one sorry corner of their room. Chloe lay limp across the matted bed she'd just retaken. Exiled onto the easy chair again, Colt carefully nursed the last beer from the depleted fridge. _Gonna need to do some shopping soon…_

He looked over his partner with a touch of growing concern. Chloe was dreamy again. It was that woman from Maria's, he was sure. _I thought that bitch lived in Paris? What the fuck is she doing here in Rome?_

He thought he knew why. And the "why" troubled him.

_Just what we fucking need to come up at the last fucking minute: the fucking past..._

Chloe continued to mope. Colt was tempted to toss the empty can at her blank face just to have her react. A knife thrown in retaliation was infinitely preferable to this bland stalemate.

He wanted her back. With eyes ablaze and a blade at his throat, if it was the only way she was staying. So long as she was with **him**.

_How?_

**  
**Kirika slowly faded from Chloe's thoughts. Try as the redhead might, she could not brood forever. She was a smart girl with a pretty sensible grasp of reality despite occasional flights of fancy and hotheaded denials.

Past was past. That Girl was not coming to her. Never. Kirika had Corsica's Daughter (_but why is Mireille here in Italy? Where is Kirika, then?_)

And Chloe had Jeremy.

He came to save her that possibly fatal day at the Manor, despite being half-dead himself. He brought her out of her tragic illusions. He served as the lifeboat she desperately clung to as the stormy sea of harsh reality swallowed up her dream world. And he stayed with her all throughout the trying times that followed.

He could have left her days ago, after her foolish blunder that could have cost them their lives. But he didn't. He stayed. He put up with her silliness.

He really loved her.

She felt an intense need to say or do something. But what? Apologize? That thought made her hot with rage. She was True Noir, the most dread assassin who ever walked the world. She was above such petty things like apologies and longing. And she did not need a man, any man.

Yet–

For him, she would abase herself. She needed him.

She loved him.

**  
**Their eyes met.

**  
**Brisk footsteps sounded outside the door.

Colt noiselessly leapt off the easy chair. He tipped the lone table over to face the door and ducked behind it. The muzzle of a big M1911-A1 semiautomatic pistol fortified the top of his improvised hardwood barricade. He had a couple of extra eight-round magazines worth of the .45 Magnum ACP "Moro-stopper" at hand and more stashed nearby. It would be a short and messy firefight.

The even quicker Chloe was already pressed up flat to the left of the entrance. She found and hit the light switch. Protective darkness enshrouded the room, a darkness broken only by the glint of shiny steel tucked in between her fingers and the glowing green orbs of her light-sensitive eyes. She watched the windows across the door for the possible forced entry of a commando via combat rappel.

They had an unwelcome guest. Had the Italians or Americans tracked them down? Sorry were the fools who dared challenge lions in their den, so went an old saying.

The footsteps stopped right before their door. Shoes, Chloe realized. _Rubber shoes. A man. Rather small, by the sound of his steps. Asian? Casual. Unafraid._

There was the slightest of thumps as the person set something before the door. Grenade? Bomb? Colt's finger rested but lightly upon the single-action trigger. Chloe braced to meet the mad rush head-on.

Rubber Shoes walked off.

The assassins expectantly waited for the storm of Carabinieri or Gruppo commandos or bulletproof hit-kids or fire and shrapnel.

But there was nothing.

They exchanged knowing glances. Chloe swiftly moved to the windows. She parted the curtains and peeked outside before pushing them wide open. She soundlessly disappeared into the warm night.

Colt garrisoned his makeshift fort. He waited for a silent eternity of three minutes and forty-three seconds. He was unafraid for himself and his partner, expected trouble, was ready to pour lead into the throat of the first hero to charge in.

_Come in, dearies, I've got plenty of what passes for Medal of Honors in this country…_

Three quick raps. Pause. Five more. All clear, no enemies or traps signal.

"Jeremy," the familiar whispering voice murmured.

The hand cannon lowered. "Clear."

A key noisily inserted into the brass knob. The door opened. Chloe's face glistened with perspiration and humidity. She ignored the miniature cannon aimed at her chest. "There's no one here," she breathily reported.

Colt pulled his lover up against him and roughly kissed her full on the lips.

"I'm sorry for being a prick," he told her when they finally broke apart for air.

"I'm sorry for being a blind fool."

He grinned like the madman he partly was. She smiled back– and held up a small white envelope in her left hand. Her right carried a stacked trio of small cardboard boxes that smelled real good. They were branded Rolito's Pasta.

"Fear the Greeks when they bring gifts," Chloe quoted.

**  
**The message in the envelope was handwritten, print letters, using a cheap ballpoint pen. It was very direct and phrased in a familiar manner.

**  
Hey, 666-Lives. It's me, Rouge, your old buddy from Wet Works. I have an employment proposition for you. If you're interested, meet me at ****Rolito's Pasta**** (it's in Trastevere, near the end of Villa de Luce. Just walk straight. You can't miss it. The sign's a dead ringer) tomorrow at noon. You can bring your lady friend along if you like. The more, the merrier.**

**P.S. As far as I know, our mutual acquaintances from the dollhouse don't know about this place. You can stay here for a while.**

**P.P.S. I left dinner. Enjoy.**

**P.P.P.S. Congratulations. She's a great one. Don't let her get away. Again: enjoy. **

**  
**Colt's unshaven mug split into a wide grin of pleasure. "Sonofabitch…"

"Who is it, Jeremy?"

"An old friend I thought dead, buried and forgotten. Come on, Chloe." He took the boxes of food. "Let's eat dinner before it gets cold."

**  
**

**  
**"Wow," Elena murmured in wonder, to her Sensei's pleasure.

"I thought you'd say that."

"Do you really own this restaurant, Sensei?"

"Technically, yes. I saved the place almost single-handedly. The owners adopted me and made me an honorary owner."

"So they named it after you?"

"No, it was already called that long before I came. Still, isn't it strange to find a restaurant that shares your name?"

"It **is** weird, Sensei."

"Elena-chan? What did I tell you to call me?"

"Sorry." Then: "Papa."

"Good girl."

The faux father-daughter pair chuckled.

Elena was glad to learn that Rolito's Pasta existed in real life. She had thought it yet another of her Sensei's tall tales. Like the stories about those aswang vampire monsters he once used to scare her half to death last November. Or defeating a hundred sword-using mercenaries on his own– though Rolito admitted afterwards that there had only been thirty, that he used poison gas on them (which led to his infamous "antidote allergy" story), and had back-up consisting of one knife-wielding asylum escapee. Or so he cheerily stated. Elena could rarely tell if he was serious or not.

She took time to brush and braid her shoulder-long brown hair. They were going to a nice restaurant, so she naturally wanted to look her best. With that in mind, Elena picked a dark blue blouse with long sleeves and white rims to go with a dark brown skirt. She added black ribbons to augment her twin braids' charm before pulling on thick white socks and russet-colored girl boots.

She was told not to bother with weapons. "It's safe there," Rolito assured. Rather confident of him. Rather troubling, too, considering his record for biting off more than he could chew. The Mirasol incident was still fresh in Elena's mind.

Still, her bow sat inside its leather carrying case in the back of their rented Toyota RAV4, the metal blue-colored "family car" SUV parked a block away outside the cramped streets of old-style housing and restaurants that was Villa De Luce, Rome.

Her Sensei went for a loose-fitting white polo, dark blue jeans and white rubber shoes. Rimless eyeglasses heightened his quasi-academic airs. Unlike her, he was armed to the teeth, carrying enough knives (he left his all-too-ostentatious katana beneath the driver's seat) to start a cutlery shop. Yet Rolito Miranda seemed far more relaxed in his guise as "the novelist Sheo Darren" than even the confident mentor persona he assumed around her and Giuseppe. His capacity for verisimilitude awed Elena.

"Rolito's Pasta," he explained during the long drive through tight streets and aging architecture, "Is a classy restaurant in the outer city's quieter suburbs. It's owned by Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco Rossinari. They had some trouble with debt and bad deals, and the shop was about to be foreclosed. Well, I couldn't allow a place named after me to go down, now, could I?"

He had been new to Amalgam then. Seeing his name plastered over the establishment's entrance easily drew him in. The food and the back story kept him there. Rolito (in his guise as "Sheo") ended up paying off the Rossinari's debt, getting a good finance manager and better staff, and frightening off or hospitalizing a pack of local hooligans. The owners happily took him as a surrogate son and also made him honorary owner.

Life was a greater adventure than the best stories fiction writers could concoct.

A well-dressed waiter met them at the entrance. The man's smile was bright and fond. "Sir Darren!" His spoken English possessed the cultured lilt that defined the typical Britisher wherever in the world he might end up in. "Welcome back!"

"Glad to see you again, Hobbes. It's been a while." Rolito patted Elena on the head. "Elena, meet Hobbes. He's the head waiter." He affectionately ruffled her hair, making her flinch and blush cutely. "Hobbes, this is Elena. She's the adopted daughter I've been telling you about." That last was almost the truth. The best lies always were.

"Pleased to meet you, young miss. I hope you'll like this place. Your table is waiting, Sir Darren."

"Lead us to the Promised Land, then, Hobbes."

They arrived at a wall-side table fit for four. Rolito and Elena sat together on a cushioned bench. Hobbes passed Elena a colorful carte du jour. "The usual drink, Sir Darren?" he asked.

"You bet."

Hobbes gave Elena a questioning look. She glanced at the menu. "Apple juice, please."

"Apple juice for the young miss."

Rolito ordered a platter of pita bread as appetizer. "Is there anything new on the menu, Hobbes?"

"Yes, Sir Darren. We have a new drink. Experimental."

"Alcoholic?"

"Quite so."

"Maybe next time, then. Thanks a bunch, buddy."

"My please, Sir Darren. Call me if you need anything."

"Hobbes is a good man," Rolito, now talking in Italian, explained to Elena as the waiter bustled off. "A bit happy and rather talkative, but he's very dependable and good at what he does."

"Why were you asking about a new drink, Sen– Papa?" Elena asked.

"When dining outside, always try out new meals. You never know if you'll hit on a winner."

Elena grimaced. Her Sensei was up to something insufferably clever again. That meant she needed to watch out extra hard for them both. Rolito's brilliant plans occasionally backfired– and did so spectacularly.

She surveyed the half-ful, air conditionedl restaurant. Most of the patrons were twenty or younger. A good number were romantically-inclined couples who saw no trouble in making out in public. Knots of youths cheerfully talked about sports, girls and sex.

Elena shook her pretty little head in disapproval. What was a good rural Catholic girl supposed to do?

A handsome golden-haired French boy, perhaps two or three years older than Giuseppe, seated two tables away, happened to meet her roving gaze. Surprise briefly widened his excellent blue eyes. Then he masterfully recovered by beaming at her.

Elena blushed.

Her "Papa" also noticed. Rolito gave the boy a cold look. The voyeur suddenly became very interested in the contents of his beer mug.

"Stupid Frog," the hit man muttered under his breath.

Elena hid a grin behind the menu she pretended to peruse.

Hobbes shortly returned with drinks and pitas. The duo indulged. "The new cook is good," Rolito judged aloud after an experimental munch. "Fast, too. Hobbes has an eye for them, all right."

Elena, sipping her apple juice with ladylike restraint, tipped her head in agreement. "It's delicious…"

"This place does appetizers and fruit juices fine. The pasta selection, though, is the real moneymaker." A callused finger tapped the menu. "I suggest the carbonara. The sauce is so rich, it made me feel like a millionaire after just a few mouthfuls."

"No wonder you've been putting on weight lately, Papa." It was a joke. Her Sensei was whipcord lean and wiry muscle. Rolito gladly played along by gesturing in a tragic manner.

"Well, well, well," a crusty voice loudly intoned, rising above the background chatter and making heads turn. "If it isn't my old war buddy Rouge!"

Elena nearly jumped out of her seat. She would have launched herself at the source of that arrogant voice out of pure defensive reflex (and possibly caused disaster) had not Rolito grabbed her right hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"Hush, Elena-chan, it's all right, they're the ones we're waiting for…"

The brown-haired girl bit her lip and kept still as ordered– no, as _requested_. This wasn't a mission, but a lunch.

A tall man smirked down at them. He was much bigger and heavier than her Sensei (no big feat; Rolito was only about 5'6 and seventy-plus kilos), and less neatly dressed. His dark black hair was short and straight and slicked to sheen. He wore a coat despite the heat, though he did keep it open and unbuttoned the collar buttons of the white polo beneath it for extra ventilation. His dark pants were only slightly better off, and his black shoes less so. The look on his brusue face combined amusement and derision. His arrogant attitude and appearance snarled American.

Beside him was a stern-looking young woman with reddish hair and cold green eyes. Crimson lace and pointy frills festooned her innocently sexy short dress and fancy wrist cuffs. Her childish manner of clothing clashed with her sharply angular face and flinty look. She looked rather like a fox, when Elena thought of it, with the same cunning look and easy movement.

They had happened on her and her sensei without their noticing. Elena picked up whiffs of gun oil on the man, steel on the woman and blood on both. She did not like either of them.

But Rolito grinned. "It's about time you arrived, Jerry," he warmly greeted the American.

"We were here an hour before you guys," Jerry countered with an even bigger grin.

"I know. Sit, sit." The host expansively gestured at the empty bench across the table. His guests did so, but not without warily eyeing Elena. The girl stared back and wished she had her bow or some other weapon at hand.

Again Rolito patted her head. That familiar, comforting touch automatically relaxed her. Elena trusted his judgment. _If Sensei is okay with this…_

"This is Elena," Rolito introduced. "She's my adopted daughter. Go on, Elena, say hello."

"Hello."

"Cute," Jerry noted with lightly-masked dislike. "You have them, too."

"Yes. I assure you that Elena is one of the best." His praise caused Elena to blush. Rolito gestured at Jerry. "Elena, this is my old friend Jeremy Colt. His friend is–"

"Chloe," the redhead curtly provided.

Elena, seated next to Rolito and having grown familiar with his body language after a month of close teamwork, easily detected her Sensei's subtle tensing. That set off mental alarms. Rare was the mission or person who daunted Rolito. If this woman set him on guard, she was assuredly dangerous.

"Well, now." Rolito absent-mindedly rumpled his ward's hair. "What a coincidence…"

"You know Chloe?" Colt asked.

"In a manner of speaking…"

Chloe's fox-slant eyes narrowed even more. She watched Rolito with the intensity of a hunting cat stalking prey.

Elena tensed at the offered threat to her handler.

Colt grumbled. "Can't you ever talk straight, Rouge?"

"I can." Grinning, Rolito again ruffled Elena's hair. The overprotective girl flinched, her temper defused. "My profound apologies, Miss Chloe. I believe I may have heard of someone who shares your name. I hope you are not offended."

The woman tersely nodded.

"Shall we order lunch? And just in time, Hobbes," Rolito praised the ever-watchful waiter arrive with extra menus. "As promised, lunch is on me. Feel free to order whatever you want."

Colt ordered a beer. Chloe settled for iced water. Both helped themselves to the remaining pitas. "Nice restaurant you have here," Colt approved.

"It's a good retirement plan. I won't be hale forever. I recommend the Seafood Bonanza. I'm allergic to shrimps and crabs and clams, but I braved those for a platter. It made the following bottle of foul-tasting anti-allergen worthwhile."

"If I get food poisoning, I'll hold you responsible."

"Jerry, I'm an honorary owner of this place. Of course I'll be named in the lawsuit."

"I don't deal in lawsuits."

"Don't we all?"

The two men laughed. Elena grimaced while Chloe rolled her eyes. _Men…_

They ordered. Elena selected a kiddy meal consisting of spaghetti and deep-fried chicken lollipops. Rolito picked his favorite carbonara plus a side serving of chicken caesar salad. Colt got the advised Seafood Bonanza, a burger and smoked sausages from some place called Hilshire Farms. (He wondered why Rolito was grinning like an idiot over the sausages.) Chloe wavered between Colt's pasta and an equally tempting fettuccine Alfredo. She chose both and added a slab of garlic bread.

"Get something with lots of meat, Chloe," Colt complained. "You're too skinny already."

"Excess weight will hamper my movements and slow me down."

"At least she'll be eating a lot of starch," Rolito pointed out. "Carbs are good for our profession."

"I wasn't talking about our profession," Colt tartly returned.

Elena wondered what prompted her Sensei's enigmatic smile.

Hobbes left anew. The adults held animated conversation over courtesy bowls of hot mushroom soup. "You didn't seem surprised to see us, Rouge," Colt noted.

"I already knew you were here. Going early to an important meeting is the oldest trick in the book. Plus, I asked Hobbes."

"All you asked him for was about a drink," Chloe interjected. She paused. "You had a prearranged code."

Rolito raised his glass to her in a toast. "And you can read lips, Miss Chloe. Exactly. I called Hobbes last night. New drink, Jerry's here. Alcohol, he has a friend. Caffeinated, two or more."

"He's a sharp one," Chloe grudgingly conceded.

"But only because I prepare well in advance," Rolito pointed out with extreme humility. "And cheat whenever I can."

Colt laughed. "Damn straight!"

The expletive caused Elena and Rolito to wince in unison. Chloe fixed Colt a reproving look. "Language, Jeremy. There's a child here."

"And a child-at-heart," Rolito added with an extravagant gesture.

"Sissies," Colt told them. He turned serious. "How'd you find us? I don't think you knew we were visiting."

"I didn't. I was watching my good friends the Italians. Then I heard the Americans were in town. The Italians got all worked up over it. Not In My Back Yard and all that. The Italians went to have a chat with the Americans. I followed at a discreet distance. Imagine my surprise to find **you** preparing to nuke Italy back to the Stone Age."

"**Nuke**?"

"Well, you **do** have a reputation for blowing stuff up– which is to be expected of **Americans**…"

"Yeah? Well, **you** little brown American **wannabes** are…"

Elena quickly lost interest in the adult talk. She knew her Sensei didn't mean to ignore her. _It's not like I can help him right now. And he seems to be having fun. That's good. He should get a chance to relax every now and then._

She cast her gaze about the restaurant. There might be other, possible threats aside from the ones seated right across the table. Anything to fight off boredom…

The blond boy from earlier beamed at her.

Rolito had called him a Frog. Her Sensei bore a ridiculous grudge against the French. _"Of course I sneer at their fancy cigarettes and hairy underarms and penchant for surrendering at the first Stuka dive bomber that flies over their heads. Plus, their A-bomb testing made the American Godzilla. And forget their wine. __**Italy**__ makes the best wines. The cheese from Normandy, though, is another story…"_

But Elena saw nothing wrong with this particular Frenchie. He had a nice, even smile to go along slight dimpling on his cheeks. _Frenchly cute, was that the term?_ He dressed well, too, in expensive-looking casuals that fitted him like a glove. His approving eyes drank in her features even as her own brown ones returned his interest, albeit she did her ogling out of the corner of her eyes. His attention made her finger one of her braids out of nervousness.

_Is my hair okay? Sensei had been ruffling it for a while now. Maybe it's mussed up. But he's still smiling at me. Oh, God, I hope he doesn't think I'm Sensei's lover or something!_

Elena felt her cheeks heat up. She liked this boy. He was cute and charming and interested in her. He also made her feel like the biggest country bumpkin in the world. She was only thirteen. Worse, she looked eleven, and would remain looking so for the rest of her life. Not to mention formerly being a simple farm girl from the town of Matera in the Basilicata Region of Southern Italy, now an archer assassin-in-training under the wing of a semi-legendary Filipino hit man. In stark contrast, her strapping admirer was probably the only son of some rich foreign businessman. Romeo and Juliet had better chances. Besides, Rolito disliked the boy, and her guardian's disapproval could sink any ironclad battleship with a single laser-like glare.

But girls were girls, boys were boys, and she could not help but think fondly of this dashing youth as he charmed her rather like she thought her perfect man would. Like–

**  
**_Somewhere in the barren highlands of Afghanistan, snugly tucked within his ultra-light mummy bag, listening to the wild wind howl outside his dome tent while he thought of his loved ones in Italy, Giuseppe murmured his sister's name._

"_Elena…"_

**  
**The brief vision passed. Righteous indignation filled her little heart. Elena stuck her tongue out at the boy.

The startled lad's drinking buddies laughed aloud at the abrupt rejection. "You've been dumped, Marc," one teased.

"Shut up, you guys," Marc muttered.

Familiar fingers fondly ran through her hair. "Elena-chan," Rolito gently scolded, "Don't pick fights with the other customers."

"But, Papa, he was asking for it…"

"In more ways than one," Colt suggested with a wicked grin.

Both Rolito and Chloe gave him long looks of disapproval. Colt smirked back unrepentantly. Elena wondered what their exchange signified. Whatever…

_Sensei and Big Brother are all I want and need._

**  
**"You told me you had a proposition," Colt told Rolito after Hobbes refilled their drinks. They talked in English, Rolito's adopted native language, the better to protect against possible Italian eavesdroppers.

"I do. I understand our mutual friends have been after you."

"You've run into the Americans?"

"I've met their Italian counterparts. Similarly lovely people."

Colt glanced at Elena. "Your kid's one of them, isn't she?"

"Yes." Rolito waved disarmingly. "Please don't give her that look. It isn't her fault in any way."

"So **whose** fault would it be?" Chloe asked a bit too tartly.

"That Elena is what she is? That would be mine."

Elena looked up from the empty soup bowl she'd been glowering into in lieu of Marc's face. Rolito's smile was small and cold and angry. His bleak look could have frosted Hell all over.

"I was looking for someone like her. Orphaned. Dying. She was perfect. I could even get her brother aboard. All I had to do was tell him I could save her. Not even a lie. Just the incomplete truth. I didn't tell him how or what happens afterwards. That I would turn them into shadows of myself. Make them into tools I can use to advance my position. Tools of my trade, to be used and discarded as I saw fit."

Unblinking black pupils bored into Chloe's hard green ones. "I'm pretty much a heartless bastard, aren't I?" Rolito softly demanded.

"Sensei," Elena began in his defense, forgetting the fictitious façade of father-daughter she was supposed to put up.

"It's the truth, Elena." Rolito's tone and face softened immeasurably. "I'm not a very nice person. Far from it."

"You picked me and Big Brother. You saved me. You gave us new lives and take care of us. You protect me from myself. You **are** a **good** person– if not to anyone else, then to me and Big Brother. Isn't that enough?" Elena's beseeching expression was the very definition of plaintive. "Aren't **we** enough for you?"

He didn't answer. His silence was affirmation enough.

"You were always a rank sentimentalist, Rouge," Colt said in a surprising bit of sage-like appreciation. Equally unexpected was Chloe's quick nod of agreement.

Rolito wanly smiled. "Coming from the likes of you, Jerry, I think that's faint praise. Thanks."

He leaned forward in a manner both conspiratorial and friendly. "Let's get to business. My organization needs your services. We have job vacancies. You two have useful skills and experience. My boss is interested in contracting you for the long run. I was quite effusive with describing your accomplishments, Jerry. I told him all about your successes against the American… dolls." Rolito gave Elena an apologetic look. "He was very impressed. He wants you for your experience with them in case we ever have to go up against their likes."

"You want the gist of my experience?" Colt huffed. "Stay the fu–" Seeing Rolito's alarm and Chloe's disapproval at his choice of wording, he dropped the half-spoken epithet. "Keep away from them. They go down hard. If at all. I had trouble with them all the time."

"That's my experience, too," his fellow hit man agreed. "Still, you are undoubtedly one of the most experienced and knowledgeable people in our side of the business when it comes to dealing with… them. That gives you an edge over other candidates."

"So, what do I get in return for all my trouble?" Colt asked.

"My organization will supply you with everything you will need or want– within reason, of course. In turn, a liaison will be assigned to you. It may be me or someone else. That liaison will give you your orders when the time comes."

"Are we stuck in Italy?"

"No. My organization operates worldwide. You may be sent to other countries as needed."

"I always wanted to tour the world. Opposition?"

"The usual suspects." Rolito mouthed _Mithril_. Colt could read lips well enough to get along on his own.

"That's nice. The pay any good?"

Rolito gestured to the restaurant around them.

"What if we want to quit?"

"Complicated– but not impossible. My boss' main security issue is making sure not one single person knows too much. You will have to be discreet when you quit. And we never really burn all our bridges. Every now and then, you might be called out of retirement to do an odd job or three.

"But we're not psychopaths. Leastways not the… division I operate in. Not anymore." _And thank you, Sagara, for killing off all the maniacs._ "In fact, my boss is one of the most understanding and trustworthy people in the business. You are professionals who know the code. You can keep secrets, can't you?"

"We wouldn't have lasted this long if we didn't," Colt confidently assured his recruiter. Rolito noted with interest that the man spoke for both himself and his companion.

"I know. A tip from someone who's been there, assuming you will sign up. The less you know, the better you are off and the easier it is to cut loose."

"And you?" Chloe interjected. "What about you."

"I'm staying with Giuseppe and Elena."

Elena felt her heart thump at that smiling declaration. _Sensei won't leave me and big brother. Not for the world. Never._

"I don't like this, Jeremy," Chloe told Colt. "This strikes me as similar to…" Her jade eyes said _Soldats_.

"I trust Rouge. As far as I can throw him," Colt added most genially.

"You can trust your enemy," Rolito ventured with a similar smile, "But never trust your partner."

That got Colt to laugh. Chloe fixed the two men with a baleful stare. They immediately shut up. Elena could not help but grin.

"A temporary contract," Colt suggested at last when his lover's glare relented. "Say, a year. At the end of it, we get a chance to review our business relationship. If we like it, we might consider renewing."

"I expected that. Your usual rate with KNiGHTS?" Said rate was in the high end of a seven-figure amount in carefully-laundered dollars. In cash. No one at the table really trusted banks.

"Yeah, about that much is fine. I'd charge more, but you're an old friend, and I'm not a complete bas–scumbag."

"Thanks for the discount. I do have a limited budget. Any place you'd rather avoid?"

"France. Italy. North America. Maybe we can drop by Canada or Alaska or Hawaii every now and then. If you want me in the US of A, I expect to be paid double for my trouble."

"I'll forward that note to the appropriate agencies."

"And Chloe goes with me wherever I go." Colt was adamant on that last. "We're in this together."

"Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way myself."

"You make that sound dirty, Rouge."

"Did I? Gomennasai."

Elena pouted at all the adult jokes she couldn't understand.

Lunch arrived. As assured, the pasta looked and smelled heavenly. Rolito crossed himself and murmured a brief prayer in English. Elena did the same but spoke louder.

"Bless us, Lord God, and this meal which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Jesus Christ Your Son our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," the gray-haired hit man appended most piously.

Chloe found herself smiling despite her legendary self-control.

"Itadakimasu," the grinning Rolito, now looking quite younger than his forty-something-year-old appearance, offered. "Let us break the bread."

**  
**

**  
**With Colt and Chloe's probationary contract in his figurative belt, Rolito surprised Elena by driving straight out of Rome and into the gap separating urban expanse and rural hillocks. He stopped at a rare grassy expanse whose smooth greenness was broken by a single oak tree.

"Sensei?"

"Are you up for some archery practice, Elena?"

It was a suggestion. She translated it as an order. "Yes, Sensei."

They got out of the RAV4. Elena checked and cleaned her equipment. Rolito looked around for possible targets. The oak tree helped by standing out. Soon it was soaking up arrow after arrow.

"Sensei? Can I ask why we stopped here?"

"Sure. For one thing, I want to lose any unwanted company we might have picked up. "Don't worry," he added at her burst of alarm, the multi-pronged war arrow nocked to her bowstring sweeping their surroundings for possible target. "I don't think we were followed."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Colt checked our backs for us before we left. I trust him."

"As far as you can throw him?" Elena quoted the American verbatim, down to the splendid accent. Rolito chuckled.

"Exactly."

"When did you first meet him, Sensei?"

"A very long time ago. I forget exactly when." His eyes grew distant as summoned memories came to fore. "I was still with my old assassin organization Wet Works. My code name was Rouge. I was young, then, and pretty enthusiastic.

"I first ran into Colt in Hong Kong. I was after a big Triad smuggler. Colt happened to be my mark's bodyguard. He took to blasting at me. We caused quite a ruckus. My mark got away. For a while. I got the bugger in the end, though, so it was a happy ending.

"Colt and I met on and off afterwards. He had been touring Asia. I don't know why. He never told me, and I never really asked. We sometimes partnered, but we were enemies more often than not. I was playing 'good guy' back then. Not a fun job, especially with Colt on the OpFor. He's very good.

"Finally, he moved to America. I stayed in Asia. The rest is history." _In more ways than one,_ Rolito thought.

"How about Miss Chloe?"

"**Her**. Well. I don't know her personally. All I have on her is rumors and guesswork and coincidence. But if I'm right– and I hope to God I'm not– she might actually be one of the most dangerous people on this planet."

"More dangerous than you?"

"Very much more. Elena, you might see me as Superman, but I am just a small frog in a large pond. Chloe can kill me with her little finger, and Colt is far more dangerous than I was at my best. And frankly speaking, I'm getting old– while Colt still looks the same since I first met him. I've suspicions about him…"

His spiel tapered off. Rolito lifted his eyes towards the newly-arrived night. Nostalgia and reverence caused him to smile. "It's a nice night, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sensei. It's pretty."

"New orders, Elena-chan. From now on, call me Papa."

"Eh?"

"It's just me spoiling myself." He laughed. "Never mind me. Forget I even said that."

"But if you really want to, Sensei," Elena pressed, seeing the humor and advantage in it, "I can call you that instead."

"Really? But– nah." Rolito shook his gray-streaked head. "I'd be too embarrassed…"

"Do you really mean that, Papa?"

"Stop that."

"But why, Papa? Don't you like me calling you Papa?"

"Elena..." But he was grinning.

"**Papa**…"

His hand hovered over her head to ruffle her hair. Then he thought better. Rolito hugged Elena tight to his chest. "Elena, my dear, you are the bright gem of my dotage."

"Of course, Papa."

**  
"Ang awiting ito'y para sa iyo, at kung maubos ang tinig, 'di magsisi, dahil iyong narinig mula sa labi ko: Salamat… Salamat…"**

Sighing, Rolito drew the singing cell phone (one of three, in addition to his official work phone) to his ear. "Yes?"

"_Mr. Herumet? This is Mr. Gray"_

Reluctantly he let go of Elena. His free hand gestured for her to keep quiet. Rolito took a few steps back. His cheerful tone was faked so masterfully as to sound genuine.

"Mr. Gray! How may I help you?"

Elena's enhanced hearing allowed her to pick up the caller's words.

"_We have considered your company's offering. While we have not yet fully decided to commit to your program, I profess to be personally interested in its practical applications. Can you be so kind to arrange a demonstration of your product within the coming week?"_

"Of course, Sir. I will inform my boss and make preparations. May I call you back in three days for a final confirmation?"

"_That is an acceptable timetable."_

"Thank you, sir. I will be ready to furnish your demonstration in that time. I will call you for further details."

"_I will wait for your call. Until then."_ The line went dead.

**  
**Rolito slipped the cell phone back into his pants pocket. He forced himself to look at Elena. Bubbling anxiety roiled inside his gut even as regret wrenched his heartstrings. Briefly he saw the trusting girl as not too unlike the device he put away, as what he angrily told Colt and Chloe earlier, the hateful truth: a tool.

He hated himself for even thinking of Elena in such cold terms, for picking her in the first place, and for being too sentimental and caring for his own good. For it was his mission to make her into a murderer.

Elena had not yet killed a single person. That would change. Soon. She would need to grow up in the quickest, most painful way possible. The same way Rolito lost his own innocence. The way of the killer.

Otherwise– she would be useless to Amalgam. And useless items were… discarded.

_To live, we must kill– or be able to die._

_Jessica, dearest Jessica, how you must hate your Kuya now for what he has become– and for what he has wrought upon yet another child not unlike you…_

He almost cried. Instead he managed a smile so pleasant as to be obviously faked.

"Elena. We have a customer to wow."

**  
**She nodded. She knew, and understood, what she had to do. It was her mission. What she received her new body for. The thing she lived for.

"Yes, Sensei. I'm ready."

**  
**The Padania Republic Faction wanted a mechanical body agent.

**  
**"God The Father sent His Only Son to die for Mankind. I, your father, will kill for you." Next on _**Life Goes On**_ _Padre_**(Father)**

**  
Author Fashion Notes:** Elena is dressed up in Elsa de Sica's clothes. Chloe wore the clothes of Ryugu Rena from Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni and that of Al Azif from Demonbane.


	21. Padre

"So," the well-dressed man who went by the name of Mr. Gray murmured, "This is a mechanical body…"

"Yes, sir," answered the person with many aliases– Colonel Daren to the CRG, Remue Dadaam Herumet today with the PRF, Rolito Miranda to Amalgam and his two beloved wards, his true identity known only to himself and one other whom he loved so much.

The mechanical body being discussed stood ramrod-straight even as she fought down nervous embarrassment and a nagging, irrational fear at the back of her brown-topped head.

_Sensei would never __**sell**__ me…_

**  
Life Goes On**

**  
Revamped Notes**

Text in "()" are said over the radio or phone. Italicized text denotes thought. Bold text emphasizes the word/s.

**  
Disclaimer**

_Gunslinger Girl_, _Noir_, _Full Metal Panic! The Second Raid_, _Metal Slug_ and _Saikano_ are owned by their respective owners. I 'own' Giuseppe, Elena and Rolito. The Handsome Men and Jeremy Colt are courtesy **Person With Many Aliases**, and Mr. Gray is owned by **Maxwell's Demon**. I highly recommend you read up their works to get a better feel out of them.

**  
Revamped Chronology**

This story happens past Volume Six of _Gunslinger Girl_, several years after _Noir_, sometime after _Full Metal Panic: The Second Raid_ and five years or so before the events of _Saikano_ (manga).

**  
****Twenty-One**

_Padre_

(Father)

**  
**Waiting was hard on Elena. Amalgam's conditioning drug was different from what Section Two used. Far less damaging in the long run– Amalgam cyborgs had perhaps twice the lifespan of their counterterrorist predecessors, and far better long-term memory–, but it didn't bring out the same level of cocked-and-locked danger-sense that translated into an overprotective paranoia about their handler's safety. And Rolito used the barest minimum on his two wards.

Her Sensei had gone off with their customer (_Mr. Gray is such a suspicious sounding name,_ Elena decided) to discuss something important. So important, Mr. Gray willingly left most of his bodyguards– and Rolito did the same with Elena.

**  
**_ "I may have an alternative product your colleagues may accept. Do you have somewhere private we may talk?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Good. Let's go there. Bring anyone you trust."_

"_That is fine with me." Mr. Gray dismissed most of his men. Rolito turned to Elena._

"_Sensei?"_

"_Stay there, Elena. This isn't for your ears. Don't worry; I'll be back."_

"_Okay..."_

**  
**So she anxiously waited in the luxurious suite of some unknown apartment complex. (Rolito once joked that Padania liked to hide in apartments.) The living room alone dwarfed the long-gone apartment back in Matera, and the plush leather sofa she occupied was far more comfortable than all the mattresses and pillows she shared with her family.

But the suite also reeked of gunpowder and male sweat, and of barely-repressed hostility and secretive suspicion, nothing at all like the pleasant homeliness of her old home. She did not like the place or the people.

_I hope Sensei comes back soon…_

In a high-backed sofa, occasionally swinging her sandaled feet and fiddling with a brown braid to while away the time, Elena innocently acted the part of the harmless eleven-year-old girl. The pointed, cross-adorned frills ringing the cuffs of her lavender blouse's long sleeves flopped about her wrists as she gathered her knee-length skirt of white cotton about her for the third time.

Again she left her bow in the back of their rented RAV4. The SUV itself sat in their apartment complex's basement parking lot. Rolito decided to take a randomly chosen taxi to a nearby subway station, only to get off two stations later to repeat the process. They walked the last mile or to the rendezvous, where a beat-down Volvo sedan and a Padania driver waited. Her Sensei's paranoia was exhaustive.

Mr. Gray's own security measures were significant. Blindfolds kept Rolito and Elena in the literal dark during the drive to the conference area. The dozen hard-bitten bodyguards populating the premise were heavily armed and suspicious of everyone. They refused to look at Elena for long, though. Padania had been so badly mauled by Section Two's agents that its hostility spilled over unto Amalgam's cyborgs.

Elena sighed. _What do I do?_

"Good afternoon."

She looked up. The man who greeted her was American, bigger and taller than her Sensei, and wore shades as dark as his beard. Elena didn't remember seeing him among the "welcoming committee" from earlier.

He was also just five feet away.

_Where did he come from?_ the alarmed Elena realized._ And how did he get so close to me without my noticing?_

Specters of Jeremy Colt and Chloe from that luncheon at Rolito's Pasta a few days ago had set her on edge for a while now. Conditioning and training now kicked in. A quick sniff told her this man carried steel. (Also alcohol; Elena's nose wrinkled at the smell of scotch.) Knives, probably, since she couldn't pick up the smell of gun oil or powder. _Just like Chloe or Sensei._

At least he was not a cyborg. He didn't move right for one– though he could be faking it. Elena knew her Sensei practiced such defensive duplicity. Rolito always complained about getting old and slow, but he also kept proving to be unbelievably fast over short distances. Not as fast as her brother or Elena herself, perhaps, but certainly faster than most, un-augmented people. Fast enough to escape a Section Two junior agent back at the Mirasol– and that last was no tall tale.

Rolito had also told her about people who through intense training and willpower could briefly surpass human physical limitations and match or even **exceed** cyborgs' capabilities.

**  
**_ "Let's be glad we're operating in Rome," a somber Rolito pointed out. "I'd hate to work in Hong Kong. There, we'd run into the Takamachi siblings more likely than not."_

_Elena had to ask. "How good __**are**__ they, Sensei?"_

"_Let's just say that Miyuki's about on par with me, but is younger, while Kyouya-oniichan practically teleports over small distances. And don't let me get started on little sister Nanoha..."_

**  
**It was one of those times that she knew she just **had** to believe him, however impossible it seemed. "All legends rest upon a tiny grain of fact," Rolito lectured, once upon a time. "You can't lie well if you didn't know the truth in the first place."

She realized this American newcomer possessed much the same air as her Sensei. Less energetic, perhaps, since he was obviously older and bigger. But his blue eyes were similarly wise, and his movements were just as easy.

_But surely Sensei's better than him…_

She noticed the guards were not surprised or threatened. In fact, they seemed to defer to the man and were even **afraid** of him. That meant he ranked pretty high in Padania. And that he was very dangerous.

He was still smiling at her. It was allowable and expected. Elena wasn't knock-them-dead pretty or conceited, but she did allow that she was cute, and liked to bask in other people's approval. Besides, this man wasn't that French boy who tried to hit on her. _Marc, was that what he was called?_

_Stay focused, Elena…_

"Hello," she finally returned. Honest politeness, Rolito stressed, was important in defusing potential trouble or misdirecting enemies. Also: _"Be polite to everyone, friendly to no one."_ This man didn't seem to be hostile, though her Sensei once said that the really good killers easily masked their killing intent. _Suspect everything. Trust no one._ "May I know who you are?"

"You can call me John Doe," said the smiling man.

**  
**Rolito pocketed his compact scanner. No readings meant the room was clean of electronic bugs. To be sure, the portable jamming device he placed on the table would disrupt every electronic device within five meters.

He nodded thanks at his host. "Sorry, Mr. Gray. It's a bad habit of mine."

"No offense taken, Mr. Herumet. Security is always a must. Please, sit down."

"Thank you."

The leather-skinned chair was pleasurably cushy. Rolito kept his head and neck clear of the backrest to avoid leaving strands of hair or skin flakes that could betray his identity later on. Gloves similarly protected his hands as they gripped his seat's wooden arms. He studied his client through tinted shades.

The man on the other side of the glossy glass-topped table was **not** Mr. Gray. Sure, this thirty-ish Italian with the "Padania" haircut and the nice blue suit was the voice on the phone that set this meeting. But not the big PRF fish himself. This guy was simply not… **evil** enough.

_Wow. This observation from an infamous assassin, terrorist and arms dealer..._

Rolito coldly reminded himself that while his client's identity was very well protected, he himself was seated in this chair, face to face with a Padania man who might or might not have a good memory and/or eye for details, and who might or might not be a spy for a host of unpleasant people, starting with the PRF itself, then Section Two, then Childville and the Handsome Men, and finally (not to mention most ominously) Amalgam, Leonard being a most cunning sort.

_Games within games within games._

A whimsical thought came to him: _Am I really __**that**__ scary to merit a proxy?_

_No. Mr. Gray just doesn't want to have his face seen._

_Why? Is he camera shy? Does he have warts or a great big-ass nose to rival Cyrano de Bergerac? Or is he one of those superstitious Amish types who believe their souls get trapped inside photographs?_

_Gray's got to be Italian. Too patriotic to be otherwise– though I do have the fine historical examples of Wenceslao Retana and Ferdinand Blumentritt being more pro-Filipino than the most rabid native Filipino nationalist. A public figure? Someone I see on TV every day or so? I wouldn't be too surprised if he's a politician. The PRF has sympathizers everywhere, including the top brass. Plus, Section Two's kill score includes a couple of Senators and a good number of Congressmen. No innocents there. Are there? Nope. Never._

Shelving the stimulating mental exercise for later, Rolito gave his host a wan smile. "What I am about to tell you is for your ears only. No one else must know of it. I trust you will keep this to yourself. Am I clear on that, Mr. Gray?"

"Of course."

"Your friends must really dislike the idea of using… dolls. Well, then." _Sorry, Elena,_ was his errant thought. The man in black hunched forward slightly. "Are you familiar with the superhero Captain America? The genetically-enhanced Super Soldier?"

"Somewhat…"

"We have two special programs. One is Project Child, our cyborg program, which I work for. The other, newer program," a second finger followed, "Is Project Extended. Project Extended dabbles in biological enhancement. Long story short, they rebuild people into Captain America– or, in your case, Capitano Italia."

That intrigued Mr. Gray. Anyone could make machines. But what Rolito now suggested was rather like playing God. "Can you tell me how you do it?" he asked.

"A little. We replace a subject's muscles and organs with rapidly-grown, biologically-improved equivalents. Better muscles, better lungs, et cetera. The technology sprang from the need to provide replacement organs for medical patients. The medical giants decided it was too expensive." Rolito shrugged. "We picked it up and adapted it."

"Are they clones?"

"No. Extended retain their identities and memories. They are more or less organic. No artificial muscles or bulletproof skin. But they are stronger and faster than normal humans– and from what I gather," the man in black smiled, "Even stronger than cyborgs."

"How so?" Mr. Gray asked.

"While the cyborgs' artificial myomer muscles –the technology was lifted from Arm Slaves, you see– have excellent power-to-size ratios– meaning, they're strong for their size–, the human muscle has great potential. And bigger is better. You see, Mr. Gray," Rolito casually revealed, "An Extended does not have to be a child. He can be your hardest, most skilled operative– but now better, faster, stronger.

"An Extended retains his training and experience before his… upgrade. He heals quicker than usual. He's faster and stronger. He doesn't have the limitations of cyborgs– the need for conditioning drugs and a handler, the heavy weight, surgical repair of damage.

"There are some quirks," Rolito calmly admitted, "Some minor issues to be resolved, but I assure you that the Extended are a very viable alternative to cyborg technology."

"Why didn't you tell me of them in the first place?" Mr. Gray asked.

"I'm with Project Child, not Project Extended. Interestingly, Project Extended is looking for sponsors. Here's your chance to get a slice of some hot new technology."

"It sounds too good to be true," Mr. Gray finally commented. "First you offer us cyborgs. Then, when we hesitate to commit, you tell me of the Extended. Would you happen to have more gifts in your box of tricks?"

"That depends on your needs. I'm not the best person to explain these things. I just make the sales pitch." Rolito gestured with his glove-clad palms "If you would like, I'll arrange a specialist on the Extended to detail things for you."

"That would be helpful, yes."

"So, a formal presentation of the whole program in, say, a week?"

"A week will suffice. Is it possible to arrange a live demonstration?"

Rolito pursed his lips. "I'll have to clear it with my boss." _Do we have an Extended demonstrator? I think we have one. I'm going to have to check it out with Ami later._ "There will be a small fee."

"Understandable."

"Then, given a demonstration, may I count on you to decide within… two weeks? Three?"

"Three weeks."

"I'll see you, then. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gray."

"The same here, Mr. Herumet."

Both men stood up. A sudden bout of curiosity wrinkled Mr. Gray's forehead. "I am curious. Pardon my asking, but what kind of a surname is Herumet?"

Rolito laughed. "It's a corruption of my father's surname of Helmut," he smoothly lied. "My father was German, and my mother was Japanese. She broke his name down into syllables so she could pronounce it easier."

"I see."

_Yes. And you'll enter that into the first crime database computer you can compromise_, _just to be sure_._ And you'll find zilch. You may know Captain America, Mr. Gray, but you don't know one Char Aznable from Gundam 0079. Seig Zion._

_Now: who are __**you**_

**  
**"So you're one of the girls they've been talking about," John Doe commented after plunking into the sofa next to Elena.

"_Be careful,"_ Rolito had earlier instructed her. _"We're heading into Indian country. Watch your words. Trust no one. Volunteer nothing, not even indirectly."_

"I'm sorry," was her civil reply, "But I don't know what you mean."

"Ah. I see."

"My Sensei told me never to talk to strangers," Elena righteously informed her interrogator.

"That's good advice. Your Sensei is very important to you, isn't he?"

She let angry silence be her answer.

"Have you," John Doe carefully asked, "Ever killed anyone?"

The cyborg girl startled slightly.

"_Lie if you think you can get away with it_. _Otherwise, don't. But if you do lie, be succinct."_

_I have to make him think I'm dangerous,_ Elena decided.

"Yes," she muttered.

"How many?" John kindly inquired.

"Enough."

"How?"

"I don't have to tell you the details. Unless," and Elena did her best imitation of Rolito's mewling threat-tone, "You want to experience it firsthand."

John Doe laughed. "Spunky little kid, aren't you?"

She refused to provide him any more amusement.

They sat in silence for ten minutes, him eyeballing her with lazy curiosity, she refusing to even look at him. And then Rolito entered the living room again.

"Sensei!"

"Yo, Elena." He walked over to the beaming girl. "Deal's done. Meet your new owner." He gestured to Mr. Gray.

"**What?**"

Rolito laughed at his ward's horrified expression. "Never," he told her, and ruffled her hair. He looked her new "friend" over with surprised interest. "Mr. John Doe, I presume?"

"In the flesh. Glad to meet you, Mr. Herumet."

They shook hands. Elena stared at them. "You know each other, Sensei?"

"By reputation. John here taught Pinocchio," Rolito told her.

Elena gasped. Pinocchio, The Good Son, was one of the deadliest assassins in modern-day Europe.

"About one of just a half dozen or so people," Rolito had told her and Giuseppe during a training break maybe a year past, long before she met two of those special people at a pasta restaurant just days ago, "Who can go head-to-head with a mechanical body and **win**." Her Sensei didn't even jokingly compare himself to Pinocchio, a clear measure of how much he respected the younger assassin.

But Pinocchio was dead. He had been killed by the Section Two cyborg named Triela– thought not without a serious fight. According to the files the late Draghi had leaked to Rolito, the first time they tangled, Pinocchio knocked Triela out but spared his opponent's life for reasons unknown. Triela did not return the favor in their next bout. Still, she paid for it and was down for repairs for a week or so.

Elena stared at John Doe. _This guy was Pinocchio's trainer?_

And then she realized something else.

Her Sensei was wary of John Doe.

Not afraid, but wary. Like two big dogs, each capable of ripping the other's throat out with ease, sniffing at each other in a curious manner to ascertain whether or not the other was friendly.

The artificial myomer muscles composing much of Elena's body slowly tautened for possible action.

_If he dares harm Sensei…_

"Archaic types like us are few and far between," Rolito was cheerily telling John Doe. "It's nice to know there's at least one other rurouni in the area."

"Until you have to fight him," John quipped.

"Ah, but your boss and I are the best of friends. Aren't we, Mr. Gray?" Rolito inquired.

"Of course," the Padania boss agreed.

John glanced at Elena. "She is your cyborg?"

"Yes."

Elena didn't know what to be more stunned of: John's openly-phrased question or Rolito's equally clear answer.

"Is she any good?" John asked.

"Quite."

"For a person who has not killed anyone yet."

Elena's hasty glare abruptly died off when she noticed that her Sensei was staring particularly hard at John Doe. "What," Rolito mused aloud, "Are you telling me, Mr. Doe?"

_Sensei… Sensei is angry!_

"This girl is a weapon," John flatly declared.

"Yes," Rolito coolly agreed, "She is. But I am her owner and wielder. I will use her in whatever way I want to. And if I want her as a ceremonial decoration for display during the annual May Day Parade, she will be that and just that."

"Then she is wasted on you."

"Better me than you."

John was still as death. Elena prepared to explode into defensive action despite the danger to her self, the Padania guards eyeing her warily and fingering their weapons.

_Don't move, Elena,_ her Sensei's fingers abruptly gestured.

"Sensei?"

"You're willing to kill for this girl?" John finally asked.

"I'm willing to die for her." _But it's easier to kill for her,_ Rolito didn't add,_ because that way Elena stays happy and innocent._

_As for me? I've killed before. No skin off my nose._

John stepped back. "Apologies, Mr. Herumet." The American tipped his head slightly. "The fault is mine."

Rolito returned the apologetic gesture. "Accepted." Rolito briefly nodded to Mr. Gray. "No need to fret, Mr. Gray. We old dinosaurs like testing each other this way."

The Padania boss didn't look too convinced. _Not like I care anymore,_ Rolito decided. "Come on, Elena. We're leaving."

"Yes, Sensei."

**  
**Mr. Gray and John Doe watched the car carrying their guests depart through a curtained window.

"Why did you goad Mr. Herumet?" Gray muttered. "The man was our guest and is one of our most reliable contacts."

"As the man said, we old dinosaurs like testing each other that way."

"Our boss won't like this, threatening one of his supporters…"

"He pays me to take care of troublemakers. And he won't have to bother liking or disliking what he doesn't know."

Gray managed to suppress a shiver at John Doe's reminder. "…Have you found those outsiders you warned me about?"

"Just one. A sniper. He ignored me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He knew I was there. But he wasn't afraid of me. His partner was nearby, hidden so well that even **I** couldn't find him. If I had made any move to attack the sniper," Doe revealed, "His partner would have killed me where I stood."

"You think so, Mr. Doe?"

"Yes. That's why Mr. Herumet was so confident. Makes you wonder who warranted such confidence."

**  
**"(They're moving, Jeremy.)"

"I got 'em."

Jeremy Colt peered through the 6X Hensoldt scope of his borrowed H&K G3 SG1 sniper rifle. He had lost almost all his arsenal in their flight from the Handsome Men, so Rolito lent him the rifle the day before, at least until Colt could buy his own weapons. He didn't complain about hand-me-downs. The SG1 was an old but reliable weapon chambered for the big 7.62mm NATO FMJ round. Rolito shared Colt's belief in big bullets (a product, so went the rumors, of running into psychic horned freaks in Japan. Colt only had to pop an aspirin to believe.)

"Are they being followed?" he asked over the secure Codec radio Rolito provided him with.

"(No.)"

"Our own backs clean?"

"(Yes. The man who spotted you has gone back into the building.)"

"He's pretty good." _But not good enough._ "Okay, Chloe, bug out. Make sure no one's tailing us."

"(Understood,)" True Noir answered.

**  
**Elena was no longer surprised when Rolito told the taxi driver to go in a direction away from their apartment base. She also kept quiet about the irregularity. Her Sensei rarely found anything that could provoke his temper, but when he did get riled, he tended to be quite spectacular. The best way for her to help was to let him simmer.

Meanwhile, she dealt with her own small bit of anger. _If I ever see that man again…_

After the taxi dropped them off, they visited four randomly-picked hostels on foot. They rented a medium-sized suite with two beds at the fourth hostel using his "Mitsubishi Shiro" (Elena wondered why this particular alias sported the brand name of a car company) persona. Rolito paid in cash.

"We'll stay here for the night," he told Elena as he closed the door. "The bastards are expecting us to be home. Let's keep them guessing as to where it is."

He carelessly tossed the swearword about him like used clothing. Before, he had always watched his mouth around her. _He's still angry,_ she thought.

"Sorry about the shi–" Rolito abruptly cut himself off in mid-curse. He sighed. "Sorry, Elena. This was the best room still available. I didn't think to bring fresh clothes."

"It's okay, Sensei." Her smile was serene. "We're only staying here for the night."

"Yeah. We are."

Then it was time to place a few calls. Rolito checked on Colt and Chloe at their hideout. He thanked the two assassins and assured them that the first installment of their pay was already in the agreed account.

"Now, don't go buying tactical nukes just because you **can**, Jerry!"

"(Screw you, Rouge,)" Colt cheerfully returned.

Next, Rolito called Hobbes to have dinner for two delivered to their temporary accommodation. The British headwaiter was delighted to be of service. Strangely, Hobbes didn't seem to mind that "Sir Darren" used an alias. He also didn't seem to mind that Rolito set the phone on Paging Mode so Elena could hear what they were saying. In fact–

"(I'll send the little Miss' favorite apple juice over, Sir Darren.)"

"Thanks a bunch, Hobbes." Elena had absolutely loved the freshly-pressed fruit juice from Rolito's Pasta.

"(Also, Sir Darren, I would like to convey a message to the little Miss from Master Marc…)"

"Marc? You mean that punk kid from when we dropped by Rolito's the last time?"

"(Quite so, Sir Darren. Master Marc wishes to apologize to you for displeasing you and unintentionally disrespecting the little Miss. He also inquired of me if the little Miss will visit here again any time soon.)"

"And you're telling me this because?"

"(Sir Darren, I may be Master Marc's friend, but I am your man.)"

"And a damn good man you are, Hobbes." Rolito aimed a smirk at Elena. "Tell the young master that he shouldn't get his hopes up. But if he always drinks his vitamins, says his prayers and entertains no wrong thoughts about Elena for the rest of his life, I might forget to outright disapprove of him."

"(I will convey your message to that effect, Sir Darren,)" the pleased Hobbes said.

"You do that, Hobbes. Thanks a lot, again."

"My pleasure, Sir Darren."

Rolito cut the connection. He grinned. "It looks like both Hobbes and Marc took a shine to you, Elena," he teased.

"Sensei…"

"So, do you like Marc?"

"Eh? Marc?" Elena was beet red. "Well… He's cute…"

"And?"

"But I already have a boy I like," she finished.

"Oh? Tell Papa."

She stuck her tongue out at him. Rolito laughed. "One of these days," he promised, "If we get a lucky break, I'm going to take you to see Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco. You'll love them."

He was rambling. That was good. It meant he was no longer angry. Yet that suddenly positive outlook was also troubling in its own way. His infamous unreliability was coming out again.

_Why?_

"Sensei?"

"You are not going to be a killer, Elena."

"What? Sensei, I don't understand…"

"You don't have to kill. You **shouldn't** kill. I won't allow it."

"But why?"

"Why? Because I love you." Rolito gave the stunned girl a small, sad smile. "Remember when we went to Rolito's Pasta the first time? When we played father-and-daughter?" His dark eyes softened at thinking of the fond memory. "I asked you to call me Papa, didn't I?"

"Yes…"

"Well, back then, I felt like I was really your father. And once I thought of it, I realized I've had that feeling since I first met you and your brother years ago. You were a daughter to me in all but name. I've grown to love you like a real daughter.

"Then I realized that a good father would not send his beloved daughter to go and kill for him. Or," and his lips sealed briefly, Rolito hesitating upon the unpleasant thought, "Or to die for him. God might have sent His Only Son to die for Man, but He's God. I'm just a selfish, old man who's lost one too many loved ones to not end up wanting to have more people to love. I will not sacrifice my daughter for the world. I will fight the world for her. I will kill for her.

"I feel even worse when I think of Giuseppe. I made your brother into a killer. He doesn't mind. He's doing it for you. I understand it. I'd do the same if I were him. But if you are my daughter, that makes your brother my son. I should be protecting him as well. Yet he doesn't worry me as much as you do. Maybe it's because he's a boy," Rolito admitted. "Boys are supposed to be stronger and more capable. We're supposed to be protecting the girls. Call it old-fashioned or chauvinism or machismo. But we're going to protect you, your brother and me. So you won't have to kill. So you can live as normally as you can."

"Sensei…"

"I won't accept your cybernetics or your conditioning as excuses. That's the lame way out. The way those–" he bit his lower lip "–Those **people** at Section Two think. I'm not like them. I'm **better** than them. I can do what they can't. I'll make the impossible possible. I'll give you your happiness and make sure you **keep** it.

"I know you can't go back to being normal. You have a mechanical body now. You're a killing machine in the guise of a child– **no**; you're a child trapped inside a killing machine. But you can still be a little girl. You **will** live your happy life. We'll make that happen. **I** will make it happen," he swore, equal parts angry, determined and distracted, almost mad.

"Papa."

Her singular whisper silenced him. She accepted his astonishment and gave him her understanding in return. And she would not turn away from him. Because, for the first time in three years, since she woke up from black nothingness and found his brown face beaming at her, Elena knew she at last could see into Rolito's heart and begin to understand who her Sensei, her new father, really was.

"You're hurting. You're hurting a lot, Papa. You're carrying a very big pain inside your heart. You've been carrying it for a very long time. It isn't about Big Brother or me. It's about someone else. Someone you've met before. Someone you've loved. Someone you've lost."

Rolito bowed his graying head. Trembling, Elena could barely keep her voice and tears in check.

"Papa? Who is it you love so much?"

**  
**For the longest moment in his life, he refused.

_I can't. I can't tell her._

_She won't understand._

_She shouldn't know._

_It's for her sake, too. Not just yours. If you come to love her too much, you'll get hurt again when you lose her._

_I won't lose her. Not this time. Not again._

_But you will. You always lose the ones you love._

…

_Everyone dies, Elde. Jessica died._

_Elena isn't Jessica. Elena is __**Elena**_

_She is just human. __**You**__ are just human._

_That doesn't stop me from trying. Does it?_

…_No. Not at all._

_Elena won't become another Jessica. I won't allow that to happen._

At last he looked into the shining face of the girl he'd come to love so much. Instantly the black fortress guarding the fastness of his heart crumbled into nothing. He felt no regret or shame. Indeed, he felt so light and free at being able to finally confess his weary soul's burden.

"There was a girl named Jessica. I loved her very much."

And Rolito let himself weep.

**  
**"Your thoughts, sir?" the man who had posed as Mr. Gray asked his patron over the phone.

"(A terribly interesting proposition, and well worth it, if it's real. I will discuss this with my colleagues, but I think it sounds promising enough to commit. Inform Mr. Herumet of our interest at your next meeting.)"

"Of course, Mr. Gray."

Done with the first of his many duties, the Padania man dialed a different number.

"(Hello?)"

"It's me." The informant did not bother identifying himself. "I think I may have the man you want."

**  
**Inside his office at a certain converted monastery outside of Rome, Jean Croce sat a little straighter.

**  
**To Be Continued

**  
****Teaser**

"Go. I love you to death. I'll catch up. I promise."

_We'll be a family again, you and I._

Next on _**Life Goes On**_: **Caduta (Falling)**

**  
-**

**Author Fashion Notes:** Elena wears the clothes of Iliyasviel von Einsbern from _Fate/Stay Night_.


	22. Caduta

**Caduta**

(Falling)

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**Disclaimer**

GSG and the other shows mentioned here are not mine. I only own my original characters.

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* * *

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Things fell into place very quickly. Mr. Silver had agreed to the terms the faux Mr. Gray asked for. The prototype Extended, codenamed "Alpha", would soon be on his way to Rome with his caretaker– and a significant security detail.

Through a stroke of luck driven by determination, Mithril had recently pierced Project Extended's veil of secrecy. Fortunately, someone in Amalgam (Rolito wished he could be the one to take the credit– or, on second thought, slit the helpful bastard's throat, he corrected himself;_ it's __**my**__ ass on the line, after all_) had enough sense to use Project Child as a decoy.

Nowadays, every major military power with access to Black Technology used cyborgs. Further, national peacekeeping forces often kept in touch with each other. Section Two could have informed Mithril about Project Child's agents through the Handsome Men or NATO Sparrows.

Thus, Mithril's confirmation of the existence of Project Child was, while unpleasant, more palatable than the discovery of the far more valuable (for the Amalgam bean counters, anyway) Extended.

The obvious was one of the best lies, second only to the truth.

Still, Alpha's demonstration would take place in one of three remote areas to be suggested by (fake) Mr. Gray himself. The final choice depended on Rolito, who postponed committing until he could ensure all three testing grounds to be bug-free and commando-less.

_Wow,_ he grimly thought over a cup of liquor-laced coffee._ We get to fight Gundam Laevatein and Super Sergeant Sagara Sousuke. Hurrah._

_Least me and Lena will see Seppe again…_

His senior ward had flourished under Canon's personal tutelage. Giuseppe took to Arm Slave piloting like a falcon to the sky. His sturdy mechanical body let him shrug off punishing hi-gee maneuvers that would maim or kill non-cyborgs, and his excellent reflexes turned even a clunky junk heap like his Savage training machine into a one-machine army. Given a Shadow– or, better yet, a **Codarl**, what with Seppe's "conditioning" and training allowing him to use the Lambda Driver…

_I __**gotta**__ come up with a cool tag team attack for us…_

Best of all, Canon bore no complaints about his boy, which in Canon-speak meant she completely approved of Seppe. And impressing Canon was only slightly easier than cooking a good steak.

Sure, there was that incident with that other Amalgam Fratello. (Rolito mentally chuckled at his use of the Section Two term. Then he remembered the gory details involved and stopped being so bright.) But Giuseppe had weathered the crisis well, even garnered praise for his exemplary handling of the situation. So while the 'Jessica Episode' had left an indelible black mark on Project Child's previously unblemished record…

_Our own– Elsa Factor, was that what the Section Two people called it? Could it be the problem that Seppe mentioned in his letter? No, doesn't seem like it… Well, he'll tell me soon enough…_

Other concerns called for contemplation. The prototype Extended, for one, who would be putting on a show for their Padania customers.

Rolito had met Alpha exactly once. He didn't like the boy. Not Alpha's fault. After all, Alpha was only… functioning according to specifications.

He was an excellent… specimen. His Extended biological implants gave him peak human strength, speed and agility; Capitano Italia indeed. Rigorous regimens in gymnastics, track and resistance training polished off that raw potential into sublime perfection.

Alpha was much stronger and faster than a cyborg of equivalent size. And while not as tough as a cyborg, his injuries healed much faster than a human, in comparison to a cyborg, who not only could not heal but also wore down with time and use. That made him… cheaper to maintain.

Otherwise he looked perfectly normal. Five foot nine and a half inches, eighty-two kilograms of handsome Italian urbanite, he could pass for an athlete or a model. His healing factor only made itself felt when he was injured, and that was a rare occurrence, he was simply **so** fast. His massive appetite (primarily carbohydrates to power his demanding biologics) could be explained as "He's a growing boy who needs to eat a lot". Alpha was only sixteen, after all.

_So is Giuseppe._

Obsidian coffee rippled within his cup. _They're alike,_ Rolito realized._ Same age. Same country. Same sack of shit dealt to them by Life._

_But Seppe __**smiles**__. I taught him to kill, __**made**__ him a superhuman murderer– but somehow he came to love __**life**__ all the more._

_Whereas Alpha…_

The Extended prototype was a robot in all but flesh and name. He didn't possess a single shred of personality. No fire burned within his prematurely jaded green pupils. No expressions whatsoever dwelt upon the forever youthful face. Not the slightest semblance of a unique and self-willed personality.

No will to live. Not even to survive; Alpha was expendable, if expensive. He existed only to accomplish his task.

_Our Doctor Frankensteins didn't bother the way I did. No need for useless baggage like emotions and friends and family and a life of his own._ _Subject Alpha isn't a person. Not a killer. Not even a test subject._

_No, Alpha is a killing __**machine**__. A __**weapon**__ like my sword and knives and Codarl._

_Just like Noir… but even Noir stayed even just a little bit human. So did all the killers I knew. Especially once you get a couple of drinks into 'em._

Oh, how he remembered them all.

Drunk or not, Masakari was cheerily obsessive-compulsive. Colt was funny when drunk.

Revi was a somewhat happy, semi-trigger-happy drunk– a real improvement over her usual wolverine-fierce disposition. Rock was half crying jug and half hostile. Balalaika covered an entire range of emotions, all of them nasty.

Larry– or was it Rally?– no, wait, she was a **bounty hunter**, not an assassin, so she didn't count. Neither did those two IAF maniacs, Saul and Lavi, though Saul could drink like a fish.

Misato– Mikami, not Katsuragi; no difference, really, just that one used guns and the other used a katana– was tsundere turned yanmama. _Yeah, no difference at all..._

Gauron was gay for Kasshim, Gates was gay for kittens– _a __**really**__ disturbing image, that_–, the Xia sisters were twincest gay for each other, Shin Noir was gay for Noir– but if Colt's girlfriend was who he thought she was…

_Even __**Chise**__ smiles… Hell, Chise __**always**__ smiles! She's the fucking Ultimate Weapon, she keeps on tripping on her face so much that you'd want to make tripping a crime against humanity, and yet __**she**__**keeps on **__**smiling**__**!**_

_Like Seppe… Unit Zero One…_

_We made these kids that way. __**They**__ have to live with what's been done to them._

_The others ran away. I chose to stay, to see Seppe and Lena as what they were once been, what they always were, chose to love them…_

_Hypocrite,_ he told himself._ You still let this happen to them. You still stood by and let Seppe and Lena become weapons, made Seppe into a killer._

_But if I didn't, I wouldn't have known Elena. She would be dead. Like–_

**.**

Bloodied lips fluttered apart. In his leaden arms, dearest Jessica whimpered softly.

"Kuya…"

.

Trembling, he hissed. Fingernails dug sharply into the insides of his balled fists. He wanted to strike out at someone, some**thing**– **any**thing. Bared, gritted teeth demanded the right and circumstance to **kill**. A heart raged out of anger. Weakness. Humanity. To prove:

_**I**__ have feelings. Will. A conscience._

_I am still __**human**__. __**Always**__ human._

_Am I?_

.

Aldo.

.

He stiffened. **She** sternly stood before him. She of the ideals and tradition he adopted.

She whom he loved above all others, even his sister.

If Jess was his guardian angel, She was his Madonna, his Goddess.

And he was no longer frustrated and furious. How could he be? He had neither temerity nor the right.

Not before Her.

_Sensei…_

_Hibiki…_

.

"I will wait. However long you take to accomplish your vengeance, no matter how much you've changed, I will wait for you. Because I love you."

.

"Thank you," Rolito murmured to the blessed winds, "Sensei."

_And now it's time for a chat with the local expert on Extended. No House, that Doc McAllister._

_Well, at least Elena's having fun…_

.

* * *

.

"They're done!"

"Wow… they look delicious!"

"Let them cool first…"

"O~kay~"

Carla Rossinari was delighted to have her adopted son's adopted daughter over. It had been so long since the laughter and bustling energy of a child graced their home. Her own children had moved far away and were too busy tending their own families to visit. And of the Rossinaris' two adopted "sons", Marc never visited, while Sheo would often disappear from the face of the world, making Carla occasionally wonder if her boy novelist had gotten into trouble with Mafiosi– or Carabinieri.

She immediately disapproved of the suspicion. _Sheo wouldn't do that. He's a good boy. And his Elena is an absolute delight._

The eleven-year-old girl was very much a darling. Elena was quick to spot and help with any chore, was skilled in housework ("Papa can't **fold** clothes for the life of him…") and possessed a likeably lovable nature. She practically begged to be supplied an abundance of warm busses and hugs, which Carla happily granted in excess.

_Sheo's so happy around her. If she was only his age, I can see them married. Though I think he already has a special someone…_

Two days ago, her adopted son had arrived at their apartment at around nine in the morning with a very shy Elena in tow. Sheo hugged Francisco, planted a warm buss on Carla's papery cheek along with an embrace, sheepishly declined breakfast, introduced his young companion and sprung his request.

"Auntie, Uncle, can I leave Elena with you for a couple of days? I have a bunch of big meetings scheduled for the week all across Italy. I'll be running around a lot, and I'd hate to bore or tire out Elena. And I don't like leaving her in our hotel suite…"

Of course they had agreed. "We'd be happy to take care of her," Carla insisted. "Don't worry, dear. We'll have fun."

And they did. Once Elena warmed up to her, Carla quickly rediscovered the joy of being a mother– and the energy to keep up with the glowing bumblebee of joy who now buzzed about her abode, very much at home. Her husband was similarly infected and energized. Francisco's once-tired blue eyes twinkled every other minute as he harrumphed good-naturedly at his women's ministrations.

_No wonder Sheo adopted her. I feel so much younger thanks to Elena!_

_She's good for him. Sheo's always been so sad despite his smiles. That boy is so tired from trying so hard… he needs to rest before he breaks down…_

.

Munching upon Granny Carla's latest batch of cookies expounded anew to Elena why her adoptive father had foresworn packaged cookies like Buitoni, Termini and even Elena's favorite Adriana's. _I wonder if Papa knows Granny's cookie recipe? I know he can cook–_ Rolito had introduced her and her brother to horribly rich and delicious Spanish-Mexican-Filipino cuisine; Elena loved menudo– _but can he bake? Well, if not, I'll just have to make them for him…_

The Rossinari apartment was small and homely and smelled somewhat of old people, but its warmth was undeniable and its owners were wonderful folks. They beckoned her to nestle deep within their offered comforter of downy care. And Elena was only too happy to snuggle up, cat-like, in the crèche of its owners' arms.

_I am home,_ she told herself.

_Silly,_ she added in self-admonishment.

Home was… **had** been the apartment in Matera, before hellfire and near-eternal blackness. Now, it was–

_Home is where Papa is._

It wasn't half a dozen Amalgam safe houses and forward bases scattered throughout Italy. Certainly not countless rented apartments at least three blocks from their targets, hotels selected to fit the price range of whatever persona her Papa sported at the moment, ingress and egress necessitated by a blend of security and speed.

Not even the Rossinari apartment, though it came close enough. The Rossinari were the first people outside of Amalgam and terrorist groups she had met and known. They didn't know– couldn't know of the shadow world her Papa, their good figlio, frequented. Never should, and never would. Her Papa would never endanger the ones he loved.

Like herself.

Like Giuseppe.

_Big brother. How are you?_

She missed him. Prayed he was all right. Wished he would come home tomorrow. She had so much to tell him. So much he needed to know.

_Sensei is no longer Sensei. Sensei is now Papa._

.

"Elena. I'm going to leave you with Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco for a couple of days. Be nice to them, okay?"

.

_They are nice people. Papa loves them a lot. He didn't tell me about them until he thought they were ready for me. He protects them._

.

Granny and Grandpa didn't know who her Papa really was. They knew 'Sheo Darren'. They didn't know the iron man masked by the bright smile.

.

"My real name is Aldo Talon."

.

He unburdened so much of himself that night. Told her about Jessica Miranda and Masakari Dios and Vientiane Vegamora whom he still called 'Vien' and Jeremy Colt and Harry Odine and Peppina who went by the name of 'Peppo' and Eah Osborn and Muto Yuuki. About 'Ano Shoujo', That Girl, she of fire hair and blood eyes and horns and ghost hands that sliced through anything, the demon girl he met and fought over the course of several dark nights in Kamakura. About Chise, Saishuu Heiki Kanojo, the ultimate weapon, a girl not much older than her.

He spoke of Quezon City and Bicol and Aklan and Paco, Kyoto and Tokyo and Kamakura and Otaru-shi in Sapporo, Hong Kong and Macau and Beijing, Roanapur, Washington D.C and New York.

He told her about himself. Aldo Talon, the young boy of unremarkable parentage who crushed on his first cousin, the orphan in a homeland turned alien, who forged a masterwork katana out of the bitter shards of his broken innocence.

Rolito Miranda, the avenger who wore his heart in his pocket, the shadow that slipped unseen and unheard into fortresses to steal souls, The Good Son, The Best Kuya In The World.

Rouge.

Kira.

Killer.

He didn't tell her everything. They did not have all the time in the world, just one night.

And it was the painful past. Though her Papa lived in it far too long and often fell back in, he belonged to the present, belonged with her and her brother. The past had passed. She had taken him back to the now, back to **her**. Here he would stay, with her.

**.**

[One day, when this is all over, I'll buy your freedom and your brother's. We'll leave Amalgam and Italy. We'll go home.]

**.**

Home was where the heart was. It wasn't the Philippines, though his birthplace it was. He'd lost too much there, sacrificed greatly and got nothing out of it.

Or was it? His parents were murdered in America. He visited their graves every now and then. He was a good son, after all. But he was also alive. He needed to live.

Italy was also impossible. Elena liked the idea of dropping by to see Granny and Grandpa every day. But The Enemy would never let them live in peace. Not after they had seen her brother's face.

And it wasn't Japan as well. Not because of that girl he called Kaede. Not even because of Chise.

Why did her Papa still regard his homeland with fondness?

.

"We'll be a family."

.

He always left one name unspoken. Yet the owner of that name was just as present as if she was personally, physically beside him.

**She.** Behind the great man was a woman. Not his mother, murdered on foreign soil while her son slept safe and sound an ocean away. Not his cousin Vien, with whom all bridges of relations had been burned out of necessity, to protect himself and her who was still precious to him. Not Masakari, however much she proclaimed to be his lover, though love him she did, and unrequited it was.

Not even Jessica, who haunted her Kuya still.

No, there was someone else. Another who had wiped away his tears. Who had fought away his fears. Who held his hands through all those bleak years.

She who still had all of him.

A sudden surge of intense happiness caused Elena to hug her shoulders. She smiled at what the future held.

_I will have a __**Mama**__ as well?_

So, despite a brand new set of loving grandparents, warm house and a superb time, she missed her Papa.

The doorbell rang.

"Coming!" Once there: "Papa!"

"Yo, Elena." Rolito grinned even as the breath was squeezed out of him. "Tadaima."

.

* * *

.

They celebrated the week's success at Rolito's Pasta. Both generations of owners pronounced the bar was open and free for the night. Chuckles abounded over the younger host reminding guests and crew (Hobbes, most notably) present to "mind our manners over our tankards, else our neighbors think this is an Irish pub– or, God forbid, an **American** bar!"

The resulting scramble for free booze served as a good cover for Rolito to steer Marc out a back door. No one would ever know what exactly happened during their minute-long absence, but Elena was secretly glad that her Papa brought Marc back alive and unharmed.

Not only that, Rolito brought him over to the Miranda-Rossini table and sat him facing Elena, before sitting right beside him. It was a first. The two adopted Rossini weren't bosom buddies and rarely seen together, much more on candid terms, Sheo being often absent.

Tonight, though, the senior brother seemed quite the content Buddha. In contrast, Marc appeared to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The French lad pointedly avoided even the briefest of glances at the blushing young girl seated across the table.

_Papa,_ Elena mentally bemoaned. _I'm going to die an old maid this way…_

.

Several hours later, the guests having gone home, a drowsing Elena tucked away within one of the back rooms under Auntie Carla's warm watch, Rolito studied the twisting alleyway hidden behind the restaurant that shared his alias.

"Irashaimate," he greeted the night personified. "Jerry."

"Rouge," acknowledged the gloomy silhouette.

"I see you're back in the fedora and long tails."

"It's a personal signature. Nice party."

"Thanks. My invitation still stands."

"Thanks but no."

Colt eyeballed his fellow murderer rather hard. Rolito's smile thinned. "What's wrong?" the latter asked.

"You only noticed me about now."

"I was busy."

"I could have wasted you any time I wanted."

"You wouldn't," was the outrageous lie.

"Right. It's that kid, isn't it?"

"Her name is Elena."

"Told her about your sister?" Colt muttered.

"Would you rather I lied to her?"

"Yeah."

That impressed Rolito. Somewhere along the line, the American had learned brevity. _Chloe's a good influence on him, then._

"You're heading for a fall, Rouge," Colt grunted.

Rolito shook his head. "Not this time. I know better now. I'm prepared," he assured.

"Tell me a better one…"

"I know what I'm doing, Jerry."

"The fuck you don't, Rouge. Wise up. You're losing touch. You took this long to notice me. You never bothered looking for Chloe-"

A brown finger pointed at a nearby rooftop shadow slightly darker than the rest.

Colt glared. Rolito's smile was stiflingly sincere.

"Jerry. Thanks for worrying about me."

"I'm not," was the gruff counter. "It's **my** ass on the line, too, **Rouge**."

"Did I ever tell you that torture doesn't work on me?"

"Yeah, yeah, your Kryptonite's a neurotoxin antidote. The fuck."

"I'll stay on my toes."

"You do that."

"Tell Chloe I said hi," Rolito told the departing coat.

An upraised middle finger agreed to that small favor.

_Elena is not going to become another Jessica_, Rolito wordlessly promised his friend.

.

_Rouge,_ Colt grunted to himself, _you're still the same idiot I knew. Watch your ass. This ain't your country anymore… sure as hell ain't __**mine**__…_

.

* * *

.

To Elena's delight two mornings later, Rolito revealed that he knew how to bake– and possessed a copy of Auntie Carla's chocolate chip cookie recipe. "Who do you think I am, Elena?" he boasted over her adoration.

"Oh, Papa…"

The heavenly aroma of heated dough filled their small flat. They had moved in only two days ago, and rather hurriedly, too. Rolito took but a single glance at Elena and Auntie Carla to decide on the move. The greatly decreased distance allowed his daughter and his adoptive relations to see each other more often and much more easily, Rolito's Pasta now just twenty minutes away on foot.

The buzzer rang.

"Can you get the door, Elena?"

"Sure, Papa."

The peephole was out of her reach, so Elena opened the door but partly. A heavy chain kept the gap in her home's defense to a minimum. Rough types were not unknown in Trastevere.

Poised at their doorsteps were two maids. The pair looked to be sisters, perhaps twins, with the same nut-brown hair and brown eyes. One was about Elena's size and age. The other, who stood closer, was perhaps three years younger, and had much longer hair.

They smelled very nice. Elena tried to place their perfume brand. _That's nice … I should have Papa get me some, too…_

She turned and hollered "Papa! It's maids!"

"Eh? Back so soon?"

"No, they're **different** maids…"

.

Aluminum tray clattered upon the tiled counter. Rolito whirled. "Elena! Get away from the door!" he commanded.

.

Elena froze in place for a heartbeat.

.

At that range, the 'maid' could not miss. Her gun roared.

.

The gunshot could have been aimed at Rolito, the way it stopped him cold in his terrified tracks. Then he was running barefooted on the tiled floor.

_No…_

Elena slumped facedown before the door. Blood pooled beneath the brown mass of her undone hair.

.

Go.

I love you to death.

I'll catch up. I promise.

We'll be a family again, you and I.

.

"**ELENA!"**

.

* * *

.

_Tatta hitotsu no omoi tsuranuku_

_Muzukashisa no naka de boku wa_

_Mamorinuite misetai no sa_

_Kakegae no nai mono no tame ni_

_Hatashitai yakusoku_

.

_Within the difficulty of accomplishing my one and only wish, I want to show you that I'll protect you to the end, for something irreplaceable. It's a promise that I want to fulfill._

.

Gunslinger Girl ~ Il Teatrino ~ - Tatta Hitotsu No Omoi

.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED

* * *

**Author's Note**

.

To all my devoted readers: my very belated, but definitely heartfelt, gratitude.


	23. Rolito

"So he's still asleep?"

"Yes. Every attempt they've made to wake him failed. Bianchi thinks that he is somehow resisting treatment."

"The flesh is weak, but the spirit endures?"

"Eloquent."

"I've heard of incidents like this, but I never expected to see it myself."

"I have."

"I'm sorry, Jean."

"It wasn't my brother. It was Henrietta."

"Etta?"

"Yes. It was when Giuseppe and I first met her."

"You told me that she wanted to die back then."

"Yes.

"But we saved her."

"Did we?" It was the first time Jean ever sounded uncertain

"You did. We did." Mireille regarded their prisoner with pity. "So this man is going through the same… despair?"

"It's the only explanation I can think of."

"That girl must have been very precious to him."

"Yes. She probably was."

They watched their prisoner dream of different days.

"I wonder what he is dreaming of…"

_._

.

"_**You killed my family. You killed everyone I cared for.**_

"_**I hate you! I hate you! I will never forgive you! That's why… that's why…**_

"_**I'll kill you!"**_

_._

.

**Chapter 23**

.

**Rolito**

.

**Disclaimer**

GSG and the other shows mentioned here are not mine. I only own my original characters.

.

**Dedication**

To my Grandmother, Julita Cipriano Nagtalon, always **Lola Juling** to me, who was reunited with her beloved husband last October.

Paalam po. Mahal na mahal ko po kayo.

.

.

"_Aldo?"_

_He straightened out of his lazy slouch. He couldn't have his wife scold him over poor body posture. Though Christian and Catholic, she also believed in perfect Zen balance. And he believed in her, who believed in him._

"_Hai, anata?" he asked. _Yes, Dear?

_It was the doting (cuckold to the cynic like him, but in this case –his case– he trusted in the former interpretation) husband's automatic response._

"_May I hold a chaji for you?"_

_Hibiki learned her English from a half-Brit bibliophile friend. Her cultured British accent always awed him. His own command of the language came from the 'tax-evading colonies'. An already bastardized version further corrupted by a people who all too happily copied whatever was popular at the time. A people whose policy in trying times was to laugh things off, or at least smile, which he now did._

"_Of course, Dear…"_

_They wordlessly put on kimono reserved for formal occasions. Hibiki wore her favorite red set. He picked randomly from a quartet of black kimono and was helped into it without protest or teasing, him the doting husband, her as his devoted wife._

_Down the dewy path ambled the odd couple, the samurai's daughter and her gaijin husband. Hibiki bore the storage box of the traditional tea-making tools straight into the teahouse. He waited outside for her signal, rinsing his hands and mouth from the basin beside the stone bench as his mind sifted through clues and possibilities._

_Nihongo is a very specific language. Chaji translated to 'tea function'. The word referred to the formal __Sadō__, the complete tea ceremony with all the symbolic frills installed by the T'ang Dynasty and Zen Buddhism. Compare this with the casual chakai or 'tea meeting', the tea lover's equivalent to drive-through fast food._

_Hibiki didn't insert that lone Japanese word for local flavor. She only held a private chaji for him when she wished to discuss something important. The last time she did so–_

She sent me off with her blessings to avenge Mom and Dad.

_Summoned at last by the ringing of a bronze gong, he entered the teahouse door bare-footed. Hibiki sat seiza style on the tatami mat before him. He carefully settled into the same position. By now he not only withstood the steady stress on his joints but appreciated the ache it brought. It proved he could still feel. It proved he was still alive._

_Or so he hoped._

_Hours blurred by. He considered his performance flawless. Not a single wasted joule of energy, his motions precise to the millimeter, directed by the superhuman focus he'd learned from his host, his sensei in so many matters of the mind and body and heart._

_At last Hibiki put away the tea-making utensils. In his younger days, he would have taken that as the sign to promptly collapse, his legs relieved at last of that crushing weight. Now, he bowed properly, the honored guest's traditional show of appreciation. Seiza was nothing to him now, nothing compared to his heartache._

"_Domo arigato gozaimasu." _Thank you very much.

"_Dou itashi mashite de gozaimasu."_ You are very welcome.

_The _de gozaimasu_ was a polite speech affectation of hers. The verbal tic established her roots as a classic samurai, exile though she was and several generations down the line of her infamous ancestor, a man who forsook power and homeland for an alien faith and a strange new world._

_He waited for her judgment of his performance._

_She hesitated._

_That worried him. She was always quick and accurate to the point, like the iajitsu style she inherited, mastered, and taught. To have her deliberate…_

"_Aldo," Hibiki finally began, "I think you should leave."_

_He gaped. His clever tongue failed him for a full minute. He recovered his voice but not his composure. "What do you mean?" he sputtered._

"_You should leave this place. Travel somewhere else. Go anywhere but here."_

"_You're kicking me out?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Why?"_

"_When you returned–"Samurai decorum forbade Hibiki from shaking her head. He wished she could submit to human need this once. "No," she corrected herself. "You have yet to return. Your heart remains there. You are still there."_

_He could not meet her haze. She was not accusing him. There was no need for her to do so. Prosecutor, judge, jury, executioner, and condemned – he played all those roles himself._

_Vengeance was the Lord's. But he gladly served as His burning sword. He hunted down and killed every single soul involved in the murder of his parents. The code name Rouge –a mistranslation of Rogue, the fairly light-hearted moniker he first wanted– came to be overshadowed by a darker title._

_Masakari teasingly called him Kira. Killer. It was a very truthful name. No one survived his onslaught. He murdered all who got in his way._

_All save one._

.

.

"I knew it."

Jeremy Colt often confided in an imaginary person. He needed receptive sounding boards. Chloe took him too literally. Colt himself admitted to be abnormally sarcastic. His migraines didn't help. Neither did the latest cause of his headaches.

"He never learns. You'd think he'd learn." Every syllable dripped disgust. Colt wanted to spit out the painkillers he'd just chugged down. "Not."

The warning came through the evening news. A fierce fire in Trastevere had gutted half a dozen houses. One of them happened to be Rolito's new HQ as confirmed by Chloe. And Rouge did not answer or call back.

Colt didn't believe in random chance. Sometimes he even believed a fickle tsundere tyrant super director goddess was out to get him. Considering the whole of Creation as The Enemy helped to keep him on his toes.

Rouge tended to forget that cardinal rule. Rather, that idiot Flip liked to ignore it. And look what it got him. Again.

"Deja vu," Colt grunted. "It's Manila all over again."

And if bad turned to worse– like it always did…

His Alfa Romeo was brand new, completely legal, and paid with cash, Rolito being ever generous with advance pays. Colt easily kept a brisk eighty klicks per hour on the empty highway to Austria. His lowdown to Chloe proceeded at the same pace.

"Rouge won't talk. He thinks blabbing equals betrayal. And there's nothing he hates more than traitors. He'd kill himself first before he betrays his buddies. But the little girl–"

"Elena," Chloe corrected. She was shooting yet another of her thousand-yard-stares out the window.

"-yeah, well, she's MIA, too. You saw how soft Rouge is on her." _And it looks like you're soft for her, too, Chloe._ "If I were the baddies, I'd use her against him."

She regarded him even more coldly than usual. Colt stifled a snort. _And to think you and the kid were about to kill each other when you first met_. _Women…_

But he didn't want a knife in his shoulder during a live session of World's Scariest Police Chases. So he elaborated. "I don't even need to actually touch her. I'd just tell him I'll make a woman out of her, if you know what I mean."

Chloe's blank expression eloquently stated her inability to understand his euphemism.

"Anyway," Colt sourly continued, "Rouge will tattle to protect her cute little head. Guess who he'll rat on first?"

"Information about Amalgam would be more valuable to the enemy."

"Yeah, it is. But Rouge will hold out. That's his ace in the hole. He's smart. He knows he's at their mercy. So he'll try to persuade them he is important. But he can't tell them about Amalgam-"

"-because his master will not take betrayal kindly," Chloe finished. "Yet he is willing to betray **us** to the enemy."

"He expects us to survive. Maybe kill some of the guys who come after us."

"Would that not cause his captors to disbelieve him?"

"You take risks to win big."

"Rolito plays a very dangerous game."

Colt grimaced. "It gets nastier. His kid is probably dead."

"We do not know that for sure."

"Something blew up, Chloe."

"Perhaps the kitchen had a gas tank."

"It had an electric stove and oven. I checked the brochure. So did you."

"An electrical fire, then," she persisted.

"The place was brand new. It was a bomb. It was probably an incendiary since there wasn't much of an explosion."

"Rolito isn't the type to use bombs."

"Not when I knew him, no. But now that he's a member of Shocker?"

"It's Amalgam."

"Whatever. The bomb is to cover up stuff. Destroy something that should stay secret."

"Computer files?"

"Think bigger."

Chloe reluctantly did so. "Elena?"

"The kid was a super advanced fighting robot. Amalgam wouldn't want her wonder doodads with anyone else. So they melt her instead."

"Melt?" Her shock came as a whisper.

"That girl is a cyborg, Chloe. Living tissue over metal exoskeleton. If she's anything like the American dolls, she's tough. Even if she blows up, there'll be enough left of her for the Italians to copy whatever she's made of. So the bomb has to melt her to be sure. It was probably thermite. That stuff will melt tank armor. She's good as barbecued." And burnt human smelled like pork. Colt knew. All too well. "The only good thing about this sorry story is that the bomb was probably rigged with a dead man's switch. So she was already dead when it went off..."

He stopped too late. Chloe's head wasn't just in the clouds; it had entered low Earth orbit.

The greatest assassin in the world was emo beyond belief.

_This sucks,_ Colt groused.

.

Chloe knew the bitter taste of loneliness all too well. When last overwhelmed by that unpleasant sensation, it had taken a fork to her sternum and a near-death experience to snap her out of it.

And now she was alone again. That Child wasn't here. Corsica's daughter stood against her once more. And Jeremy– he had always been there for her, ever since that day in the middle of nowhere where she died and was reborn, and even earlier. But he wasn't a very nice man.

Neither was Chloe herself. She was Shin Noir, after all. One of the most fearsome assassins on the planet, she could penetrate any defense and kill almost any target.

And yet the title which defined her ensured that she was perturbed. She slew only when necessary. She spared when given the chance.

If love could destroy, hate could save. That was her mother's creed. That belief had been killed for sure by That Child's fork. But traces of it lingered in her adopted daughter. And the exception proved the rule.

There was no honor, no **purpose** in **slaughtering** children, cyborg or not. She was a **killer**, not a murderer. There **was** a difference.

_Was there?_

.

"Jeremy? What will happen now?"

"What else? Rome is going to be ground zero for World War III."

.

_._

"_Where are you? Are you here?"_

_That was the question Hibiki posed to him._

"_I don't know. I don't know anymore. I want to know."_

_Silence, it was said, was the greatest passion of them all. They dwelt in its fury for the longest minute of their lives._

"_Go," Hibiki finally said. "Leave, Aldo."_

"_I don't want to leave you," he immediately pleaded._

"_I do not wish to part us, either. But I love you, Aldo. That is why I must let you go."_

_Hedgehog's Dilemma. They loved one other. But they hurt each other when they came close. So they needed to stay apart for their own good._

_Then why did he lie? Why did he try to hurt her more by resisting, moving closer, claiming "This is where I belong"?_

_But she would not stay. "Prove it to me," she told him._

_He couldn't. One lie hurt enough. And why should she believe in him? He didn't believe in himself anymore. He didn't know why she trusted him._

"_I will wait for you," Hibiki assured him._

"_You've waited far too long."_

"_I am no use to you this way."_

"_That's not true!"_

_He wept. For himself, a sorry wretch who didn't deserve her– and for her, who could do anything but cry._

_Her hands caressed his damp cheeks, gently lifted his face up to hers. "I tried, Aldo," Hibiki whispered. "I did my best to lift your spirits. But I failed. I could not banish your grief."_

_He saw all too clearly, knew all too well, how much it pained her. The last direct descendant of a exiled Kirishitan Daimyo, mistress of her ancestral sword school, a Yamato Nadeshiko whom he loved even more than he ever worshipped Vien, but Takayama Hibiki still lost to a dead little girl. She, whom he believed invincible, gave up, surrendered._

_To him._

"_It is up to you now, Aldo. You must find the strength in you to move on."_

"_Yes. I will. I promise, Hibiki."_

_They made love, then, in the one place in the Takayama domain that had been spared so far. Their day-long tryst probably caused old Dom Justo Takayama's spirit to rise from his grave and beg mercy on behalf of his all-too-improperly-enthusiastic descendant. It did finally grant a dearly departed mother's wish for a grandchild. As Aldo would have expected, their firstborn proved a boy. And little Jestoni Junior inherited his father's peaked nose._

_But that was in the future. All they knew at that time was that life needed to go on. That he needed to go._

"_Sayonara, Aldo."_

"_Paalam, Hibiki."_

.

_**Goodbye…**_

.

.

"Thanks, Etta."

"Take care, Dani."

They hugged. Not for the last time, they fervently hoped and fiercely prayed.

Playtime was over. Capturing the still-unnamed Amalgam agent spooked Crazy Horse into a run for the Austrian border worthy of a Grand Theft Auto game. Mr. Superior had dispatched additional Teams to counter whatever new firepower and assistance Amalgam had provided its newest recruit. Those Teams already in theater were ordered to continue bird dogging for their backup.

The Americans and their Italian sisters-in-arms exchanged ardent goodbyes. A tearful Henrietta promised to write back. The equally emotional Danielle directed her to Claes' computer for a quicker e-mail correspondence. Meanwhile, the desktop's owner gifted a copy of Lolita to Yuki, who'd come to like the book. Yuki sealed the deal with the first volume of Kodomo no Jikan.

"It belonged to Dani," the pale-haired girl explained matter-of-factly to all the eyebrows raised. "She gave it to me so that I have something to give Claes in return."

"I see," was Claes' deadpan reply.

Vincent became **very** nervous around his sweetly-smiling ward ever after.

Henrietta helped Danielle pack. It was a melancholy affair. Though they stood together, they felt so apart. And all because of that mission, that man…

.

Several days ago:

Henrietta could breathe again. Mireille told her that their target was guarded by a girl cyborg. She believed her handler. Why would her Miss Mireille lie to her?

Yet worry still clenched her chest. It could be **him**. Their target resembled the man in black from the Mirasol, the man that Liesel glimpsed. This man could be **his** handler.

What would she do if she saw **him**?

Anxiety aided her disguise. The girl who answered their doorbell didn't spare them a second glace. Rookie maids like the ones they cosplayed (and what a strange term that was, even coming from Dani) were understandably nervous when meeting with new employers. That allowed the two hit-kids to get the first, fatal shot.

Danielle kicked the door open and the corpse onto its back. Her Mateba prepared to ensure their enemy was well and truly dead. Else, she would be the one on the floor with Etta weeping over her lifeless body– if Etta was still alive and not killed by an enemy playing possum.

Dani couldn't allow that. She wouldn't let anyone hurt her precious friend.

But this bloody mess wouldn't hurt even a fly, not anymore. Red mush overflowed from the girl's left eye socket. The surviving brown pupil stared straight at the ceiling without seeing.

_Good,_ Dani thought.

"ELENA!"

The gunslinger girls spun. Fingers froze over triggers. The apron-wearing man was unarmed. That made him easier to take alive.

"Freeze!" Danielle yelled. Henrietta belted out the Italian equivalent.

They were ignored.

"I said freeze!"

The command fell on deaf ears. The man bore eyes only for the dead girl. His lips fluttered with every step he took. Enhanced hearing picked up every syllable.

"Lena… Elena…"

Dani did not like being ignored. But her orders forbade killing their target. So she contented herself with grabbing him.

She missed.

"Uso!" No way!

She must have imagined that the air around her had gone cold. But the hairs on the back of her neck shot straight up. "Etta!" Dani warned.

Henrietta had the man in her Kahr's sights. She couldn't miss at this range.

Yes, she saw, all too clearly, the veil of sorrow drawn across his unseeing eyes, his seemingly silent approach, the way he struggled feebly against dead weight chained to his ankles and wrists and throat.

He faded by her.

To Dani's amazement, Henrietta let the man pass.

_Just like I let Giuseppe go…_

The man knelt beside the dead girl. He gathered up the tangled mess in his arms and settled his lips upon her pale forehead. "Elena," he murmured anew. Then he pressed the devastated face against his flour-dusted apron, sank his face into her matted hair, and wept.

**.**

"**Mahal kita, Elena. Mahal na mahal kita. Magpakailanman."**

.

Henrietta heard it all. She didn't understand the foreign words. Neither did Dani. But the man's feelings felt all too familiar. They were Etta's own. They were Giuseppe's.

_He loves her. Like how Giuseppe loves me._

_**Which**__ Giuseppe?_

The accusation struck like a bolt out of the blue. Only now did the full portent of her heinous crime occur to her.

She loved her handler.

She also loved a boy who shared his face.

Did she treasure one more than the other? If so, who did she truly adore? Did she desire the cyborg because he looked like her handler? And why did she want him when he tried to kill her? When her handler already dwelt in her heart? Did she want to replace Giuseppe with– but who was who?

.

"**I don't know if I love you… But I want to know. Do you love me?"**

.

"Etta?"

Stunned by the enormity of her infidelity, Henrietta stood heedless of the insistent electronic beeps coming from the dead girl at her feet.

"Etta! Run!"

And everything went to Hell.

.

"The girl had a bomb in her body," Danielle grimly explained later that day, back at the former monastery. "It was set to blow up if she was killed." Her small hands clenched. "Amalgam is really evil…"

Dani had saved the mission. She had shoved the dazed Henrietta out the door, then grabbed their mark and cleared the apartment just as the dead girl became a funeral pyre.

It hadn't been much of a blast. Where was the earth-shattering kaboom? Yet it brought Hell on Earth, a raging ifrit that resisted baptism and exorcism, Trastevere's winding streets hampering firefighters' best efforts and oversized equipment. Amazingly, no civilians were hurt, though the damage ran into the millions of euros.

Dani focused on more important matters, a far more important person, to worry about than fire and brimstone come straight out of Dante's Inferno.

"Are you all right, Etta?"

"Yes… thank you, Dani. You saved my life back then."

"It's nothing. You'd do the same for me, right?"

"Of course. You're very important to me."

"I know."

Their chuckles were strained and solitary. Suddenly they were strangers again. Dani hastily broached another topic.

"Hey, did you feel something weird about that guy we caught? When I grabbed that guy for the first time, I missed. I could have sworn I had him dead to rights! But I missed!"

Encouraged by Henrietta's obedient nod, Dani persisted in bridging the unexpected gulf between them. "And when you tried to shoot him, you froze up. It's like he somehow hypnotized you!"

"Y-you're right… I did feel odd…"

"You see! What is it with that guy? Is he some sort of esper?"

Henrietta's stare this time was her usual curious confusion. "What's an esper?" she finally asked.

"You have got to read more, Sis…"

She did just that. Etta and Dani adored each other. They were practically joined at the hip in the short time they'd known each other. Fratella, the others jokingly called them. They certainly looked the part of sisters, of family.

Yet even siblings couldn't fully understand each other. Even families kept secrets.

And so, with Danielle gone now (forever?), Henrietta whispered his name. And this time she thought she knew whom she invoked.

.

.

_He settled on Sheo Darren. That particular alias amused him. It was so easy to mispronounce his first name. She-oh? Shio? Two identities for the price of one, so said–_

.

"_**Kuya…"**_

.

_Italy sat on the other side of the planet. He liked the pleasant weather, great food, and warm people. He even bothered to master the language. When in Rome, do as the Romans do._

_Well, save trouncing a mom-and-pop restaurant, like the half dozen soccer hooligans that he spotted one fine summer day in Trastevere._

_He shrugged it off. He was nobody's hero. He couldn't save the ones he loved. What more these utter strangers?_

_Then he glimpsed the name of the restaurant._

.

**Rolito's Pasta****?**

.

_Well, now. Who'd have thunk it? A restaurant named after his favorite alias. It flattered him._

_It also made the harassment personal._

_He ambled over to the biggest specimen of Eurotrash oft found in a Luc Besson movie. This worthy held up a bruised French kid by an expensive shirt front._

"_Excuse me," 'Sheo' politely asked the human Mount Etna towering head, shoulders, and chest over his graying head._

"_What?" that modern day Neanderthal sneered. "Can't you see I'm busy?"_

"_I know, but I'd like to order something."_

"_Blow me, Chink. Do I look like a waiter in your slitty little eyes?"_

"_Search me." And he made a show of shrugging. "You __**Americans**__ all look alike to me."_

_That did it. Compare a European to anything __**but**__ those tax evader colonials. The thug dropped his victim and snarled "You picking a fight with me?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Hah! Who do you think you are?"_

_A rhetorical question, that. He needed no distraction. These weren't the Devil; they were practice. And it was stupid to spout a smartass crack during a fight, even one where he outnumbered and surrounded the enemy by his lonesome._

_Yet why shouldn't he? He was a Filipino. He loved Filipino action movies rife with such one-liners, where the good guy always won the bar fight and the gun fight and the girl's love. He was about to perform something on the same level of awesome as the 80 ton Assault class BattleMech. And the remark that started it all would even become a motto of his later down the line._

_Who did people think he was, indeed?_

_He answered:_

.

"_**Me? I'm just a writer. And as everyone knows, the pen is mightier than the sword."**_

.

_The always-late police found six thugs in need of critical medical attention. 'Sheo' discovered a home away from home, surrogate parents, and an annoying notional sibling whom he often needed to bail out of many a sticky situation._

.

"_**Marc, the next time your pecker wanders into some random blonde Dutch delight's pants, I swear, it's your funeral by neck snap…"**_

.

_Somehow he managed to put up with that stupid Gaul stud. Auntie Carla and Uncle Francisco did adopt Marc first. Live and let live._

_Besides-_

.

**You killed the first and last sister you ever had. You don't deserve better.**

.

_The phone call caught him in such a fugue. "Hello?" he muttered into his cell phone._

"_(I need a killer.)"_

_They found him. They always came at this time. How did they always find him?_

"… _I'm listening," he muttered._

_He'd heard bits and pieces about Amalgam. His initial impression rivaled his opinion of the wretched hive of scum and villainy called Roanapur. And he knew better than to be charmed by the good manners of the pretty boy with the sleek waterfall of silver hair. Not with Spetnaz Grandpa and the dynamic duo of Iron Man and War Machine to dampen the mood of the meet. Politeness did go arm-in-arm with having a plan to kill everyone you met._

_So his common sense tingled when this interview with the Dark Side proceeded way too smoothly for the taste of one recently fallen Jedi Knight, or so he whimsically imagined himself._

"_What happened?" he asked._

"_To condense a long and convoluted story fit to fill several short novels, I was shot in the head." The younger man smiled. "And then I got better."_

"_Mr. Silver, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship…"_

_And then they got to the giant robots. That could turn invisible. And create force fields using courage. Or fighting spirit. Or something to that effect._

_And he was entitled to one such super robot as a perk._

.

"_**(Best job in the world, boys! Mwahahahahaha!)"**_

.

_Those were the shining days. He was the crazy awesome anti-villain with the good publicity and penchant for gambits worthy of the goddamned Batman. He fought alongside elite mooks and magical girls turned mad scientists and tyke bombs. He taught some, led others, and even befriended a few._

_And to an orphaned boy and his dying sister, he became their father, family, and salvation._

.

"_**Giuseppe?"**_

"_**Yes? Who are you?"**_

.

.

"What do we know so far about this man, Jean?"

"That he is dangerous and better off this way," was his prompt answer.

A Section Two safe house currently hosted their prisoner. The Amalgam agent was hooked up to an IV drip, an EKG, and a machine that collected body waste. He had been comatose the whole week.

Danielle swore that it wasn't her fault. "I didn't hit him! Uh, okay, maybe he landed badly on his head when I chucked him out the doorway right before the bomb exploded," the little girl amended. She knew better than to try and deceive Jean Croce.

Jean barely cared. At least their prisoner survived the subsequent explosion. But almost-dead men kept secrets just as well as the dearly departed. And the Amalgam agent was not going to wake up soon.

He did have hearsay to sift through. "Our Padania informant identified him as Remue Dadaam Herumet," he informed Lorenzo. "It's an alias, of course. Herumet claimed his surname is the Japanese rendition of the German 'Helmut'. But Vincent told me that the proper translation is Herumuto, not Herumet." Jean frowned. "Vincent also pointed out that the name sounds a lot like 'Remove the damn helmet' in English. That line is a long-standing joke regarding a character in an anime called Gundam."

"So we have a terrorist with a twisted sense of humor and a taste for old cartoons?" Lorenzo grunted.

"Anime, Sir. There is apparently a difference."

He knew that look on Lorenzo's face. The one plainly wondering if his star performer was turning into an anime otaku like Vincent and his Henrietta-lookalike cyborg.

"Anime is Asian in origin," Jean persisted. "And Herumet appears to be Asian. It's a weak link, but it's all we have right now. His profile, DNA and fingerprints do not match anything on any crime database. His cyborg is also a dead end."

In more ways than one, Jean didn't bother adding. Her fiery demise reduced the apartment to ashes and melted a laptop, a bevy of cell phones, and herself into unsalvageable puddles of plastic and metal. Not even Massi could discern much from slag. And despite Henrietta's drawings and the blood splatter recovered from the man's apron, identifying the girl would be arduous, tedious, and ultimately futile. Section Two knew best just how many orphans littered Italy.

This nameless girl was just another victim.

He recalled Mireille's sympathetic opinion during yesterday's briefing. "She still serves him in death," she said of the dead girl.

"What a waste," had been his reply back then. Jean now wondered if he had meant it as backhanded praise.

"What else do we know?" Lorenzo asked him.

"The CRG prisoners from the Mirasol call him Colonel Daren. They've been led to believe that Herumet is a Taiwanese weapons dealer. So have Olga's contacts in the KGB; Herumet is listed as Shu Tao Ren in China and Russia. In Spain, he goes by the name of Alexis del Mundo and is apparently a supporter of the Basque terrorist group ETA."

"Amalgam seems to get around a lot. This man must be an important agent." Lorenzo frowned at what appeared to be a consortium of evil. "His organization is going to respond to his capture with everything they have…"

"I've prepared for that eventuality. Herumet doesn't seem to have any tracking beacons inside his body. But we kept him in a heavily-guarded safe house just in case." Jean timed his next disclosure. "I've also taken the liberty of contacting a mercenary group to bolster our security."

"**Mercenaries**?"

"It was necessary, Sir. Amalgam possesses Arm Slaves. We cannot match their firepower."

"Why not just contact the Italian Army or NATO? We're on good terms with the Sparrows. They have Arm Slaves, too, right?"

"Sir, ten years ago, a lone Amalgam Arm Slave wiped out an entire US Marine battalion." That level of lethality chilled Jean. No single man should equal an army. "Amalgam is not any mere terrorist organization. They're merchants of death with access to technology and weaponry beyond our imagination. Not even the Sparrows can stand against them."

"But these mercenaries you hired can?"

"They specialize in fighting terrorists like Amalgam. They've been doing so for the past two decades. You can say they are Amalgam's natural enemy."

"What are they called?"

"Mithril."

"**Them**? I thought they were an urban legend…"

"I thought so as well. But Master Sergeant Germi helped me contact them. Mithril has agreed to assist us. They've deployed their best team in Italy. I've assigned Mireille to serve as their liaison."

"How much is it going to cost?" The issue always came down to money.

"Enough." Jean allowed a cold smile to permeate his handsome face. "They gave us a discount. Mithril wants to interrogate Herumet as much as we do. T"

"If he wakes up…"

"He will, Sir. We'll make him."

.

.

_Vien found them. She was always the super cop. No evil could escape her sight. She was the law. And the law was not mocked. There was nothing in the world they shared… not anymore. It was either her or him._

_She spirited them away. She nursed him back to health. Destroyed all evidence and covered up his mistakes._

_She was his cousin. She loved him._

_She was his first love._

_Jessica was finally reunited with her parents. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Her father gave up his life for her during one dark and stormy night, not knowing the dark knight into whose arms he entrusted his beloved daughter would fail. And Nana, poor Ate Nana, desperately in love with the devil, willing to take on the deep blue sea of onrushing revenge-_

.

"_**If you want to kill Kuya Jess… you must kill me first!"**_

_._

_And he did. He made it quick and painless. And he wept while doing so._

_Nana was his cousin. He loved her almost as much as he did Vien._

_And yet he murdered her all the same._

_They were all dead. Uncle Jestoni and Nana died by his hands. Jess…_

_He killed Jess, too, didn't he? He promised to protect her. But he failed that promise. He let her die._

_He should have joined them. But he survived. Heaven would never accept him. Hell's denizens feared him. So in Limbo he remained, forever wandering this Purgatory, burning for all his sins, weeping for all his victims, for Jess._

_It wasn't supposed to be like this. All he ever dreamed of was to become a hero who defended the right. All he ever wanted was to protect the ones he cared for, the girl he loved the most._

_So why did he become the villain of the story? Why was he the bad guy now?_

.

_**Either you die a hero, or you live long enough to become the villain.**_

_._

_Yet, in the end, good or bad or guy with the sword, his deeds were done. The ghosts of Raoul and Evelinda Talon could rest easy. Not a single accomplice to their murder survived. Their dutiful son made sure of it._

_Captain Vientiane Vegamora, Philippine National Police, closed the Kira Case as Unsolved. Colt moved on to greener pastures. Masakari, Lilith that she was, likewise vanished into thin air._

_No reason remained for Rolito Miranda to further exist._

_And so Takayama Aldo _nee_ Talon returned to Kyoto. To his wife Hibiki. To his life._

_It was over._

_No._

_It never ended._

_He could never stop making himself pay._

_One kind act cannot redeem a life of misdeeds. It is only enough to damn you._

.

.

"_**This is for my father! And this is for Ate Nana! And these are for everyone else you killed!**_

"_**Did you think I didn't know? Or did you believe I would have forgotten? I'm not an idiot! I'm not your doll!**_

"_**I waited. All those years I waited. I pretended. I played nice. I lied. I hated myself for being powerless, for doing nothing.**_

"_**But now… now the time has finally come.**_

"_**You killed my family. You killed everyone I cared for.**_

"_**I hate you! I hate you! I will never forgive you! That's why… that's why…**_

"_**I'll kill you!"**_

.

_And Jessica drove the knife deep into his chest._

.

.

"Doctor! Doctor Bianchi! Come quick!"

"What's wrong?"

"His vital signs are dropping like a rock! He's going into shock!"

"How did that happen?"

"I don't know!"

"Well, give him CPR! I'll get the defibrillators!"

"Yes, Doctor!"

"Get clear!"

"No response!"

"Again!"

.

.

_Just gonna stand there and watch me burn…_

_Well, that's alright because I like the way it hurts…_

_Just gonna stand there and hear me cry…_

_Well, that's alright because I love the way you lie…_

_Love the way you lie…_

.

.

Mireille Bouquet stared at the Mithril Special Response Team. She gaped at one member, in particular, a slim Oriental girl with tousled black hair and, most striking of all, irises a shade of brown gone almost red, eyes that showed sadness whenever their owner killed.

_This can't be happening,_ she begged herself. _This is impossible._

.

"I'm sorry, Mireille. I lied to you."

"Kirika?"

.

.

"**(Good evening, Mr. Gray.)"**

.

The speaker loomed over the startled Italian. The being was darker than twilight, darkness beyond blackest pitch, deeper than the deepest midnight suddenly shorn of moonlight and stars. It was a lord of terrifying dreams, a king of darkness who somehow shone like scintillating gold across a roiling sea of black bedlam. It regarded the man on the bed as a fool who dared stand in its way, a fool soon to be utterly destroyed by the power it possessed, terrifying power that could shatter even the souls of gods.

To his credit, the man who pretended to be Mr. Gray refused to give in to an onset of gibbering terror worth a primal scream. He didn't even go for the compact pistol he kept beneath his head pillow, a consolation he somehow understood to be worthless against the shadow that beckoned. He simply asked, almost calmly, of this bogeyman, "Who are you?"

.

"**(I am Ciro.)"**

.

.

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
